


prodigal

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Swap, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Will Graham, Breeding Kink, Contraceptives, Creampie, Dark Will Graham, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Incest, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Nesting, Omega Will Graham, Parent/Child Incest, Pining, Rimming, Top Hannibal Lecter, abuse is not hannigram, older will graham, younger hannibal lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21684352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "Mama, look at me." He does, irises shining with water he refuses to let fall. Hannibal presses his lips together, smooths his thumbs over his mother's cheeks. "Are you happy here?"
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Other(s)
Comments: 197
Kudos: 1293





	1. Chapter 1

Hannibal Lecter would not describe his life as a tragic one, though he's sure on paper it's far from enviable. He is the firstborn alpha of his house, an only child, his biological father the heir of a foreign fortune that he has never seen nor touched. His father mounted his mother during his heat and left him, pregnant and bereft. The only thing Hannibal knows about him is his name; his namesake, which comes plastered on the outside of monthly cheques and the occasional present for Hannibal's birthday or Christmas.

When he was seven, his mother mated again. Young as Hannibal had been at the time, he had not quite grown to the age of resentment common in young alphas when a new sibling or father figure comes into the picture, but neither had he ever particularly liked the man. He was loud and brash and moved a little too widely for his body. But his mother loved him, and always doted on Hannibal and cared for him as well as he could. He provided Hannibal extra reading material, let him learn about whatever sparked his interest, taught him basic Cajun French to the best of his ability, and invested in art supplies and tutors so that Hannibal quickly excelled.

When Hannibal was sent off to boarding school, to finish his high school advancement and into college, Hannibal is certain it wasn't his mother's idea. He knows it was his stepfather's, and the alpha had smiled so wide and smug when he'd dropped Hannibal off at the bus station and wished him luck.

When thinking with a practical, logical mind, Hannibal knows that this behavior is not unexpected. Hannibal is the glaring, repeated reminder that his mother was not a virgin when his stepfather met him. That he did, at one point, belong to another, however briefly. Hannibal can sympathize, when he allows himself to; Lord knows there are times when his own thoughts turn dark, black with jealousy and possessiveness at the idea of someone laying their hands on the love of his life.

He dedicated himself to his studies, and emerged after with a diploma and a placement offer at Johns Hopkins. A surgeon-to-be, with an aptitude for the arts. Not only that, but Baltimore was close enough to home that he could at least be in the same time zone as his mother again, and that's what was important to him.

He is not expected, so he pulls out of the taxi he took to his mother's house, hefts his bag, and walks up the long driveway to the front door. The lawn is well-kept, though the grass could stand to be mowed before the cold really hits, and stray leaves from shedding trees litter the area. The flowerbeds are barren in preparation for the incoming cold snap, the air a brilliant crystal blue, devoid of clouds.

He sets his bag down, noting that there is no car in the driveway; his stepfather must be at work. He knocks on the door and smiles when it opens. His mother's lovely, gold-laced blue eyes widen, blinking up at him, pink lips parting in shock.

Then, his expression melts into a delighted smile, and he pulls Hannibal into a tight hug. His scent, always so sweet, like elderflower and maple, envelopes Hannibal, and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in of his mother's soothing scent. He is squeezed tightly, and then held at arms' length.

"I didn't know you were coming!" his mother says brightly, and Hannibal smiles.

"I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, come in!" he says, and gestures for Hannibal to enter. "God, it feels like it's been a lifetime. You've grown so much!"

Undoubtedly thanks to his biological father's genetic legacy. His mother – Will Graham of Hammond, Louisiana – is not small, certainly no dainty and willowy thing classic of omega breeding, but he's shorter than Hannibal, slim-limbed, and moves with the typical grace of his breed. He's the perfect size to hold, to embrace, to cover and consume.

Hannibal sighs, internally. He has always loved and adored his mother. Probably more than he should.

"Are you hungry? I have something I can make. How was your trip?" He speaks all in a rush, hands fluttering uselessly with the instinctive urge to scent mark his prodigal son, to cover the scent of the airplane and the taxi with his own so Hannibal is part of his house once again. Hannibal smiles at him, and takes his hand, gentling his rushing pulse with a kiss to his wrist that makes him smile.

"Coffee would be wonderful, mama," he says, keeping his voice quiet, low; soothing to omegas. He watches Will's shoulders swoop down, relaxing instinctively, and smiles, pulling him in to nuzzle at his ever-wild, thick hair. "The time zone difference is catching up to me."

"Coffee it is," he replies, and nods, pulling away and going to the little kitchen in the back of the house. It's just as Hannibal remembered – cluttered with various knickknacks and trinkets; pictures of Hannibal through the years in various school uniforms and on sports teams; photographs from the trip they all took in lieu of a honeymoon when his mother mated again. "Is Jonah at work?"

He hears a sigh, and looks to see his mother tinkering with the instant coffee machine. He shakes his head. "I wish you'd at least think about calling him your father."

"Why should I?" Hannibal replies. "He's not my father."

Will winces, a splotch of shame coloring his cheeks pink, and Hannibal sighs, stepping up into his space and nuzzling his hair. Instantly, he relaxes, and Hannibal smiles; it's natural for an omega to be placated around their child, especially an alpha. Especially one old enough and studious enough to know just how to do it.

"I have no attachment to the man who sired me," he says, raising his hands to gently touch his mother's arms, running down them, eliciting a slight shiver in response. "Nor to the man who claimed you when I was a child." Another shiver, goose bumps breaking out along his exposed neck. Hannibal hates the sight of the mating bite on the side of his throat, whited out and scarred. He presses his mouth to it, under the pretense of another nuzzle, and wraps his arms around his mother's chest from behind. "I love you. Only you."

He sighs, and pats Hannibal's hand gently. "I love you too, baby," he says sweetly, turning his head to give Hannibal one of his gentle smiles. Hannibal returns it, and Will sighs, turning in his arms. Hannibal steps away to give him space, eyes falling to half-mast as he cups Hannibal's face, expression turning, for a moment, unbearably sad. Wistful. "You look so much like him. Your father."

Hannibal knows this; certainly, there is very little of his mother in his face. His hair used to be darker, like the omega's, but lightened as he aged. He inherited nothing else; flat hair, brown-red eyes, darker skin. His mother is so beautiful, Hannibal cannot fault either his father or stepfather for wanting him, but he is glad, somewhat, that they hold no resemblance. It would threaten to make him a narcissist if he could stare into those eyes every day in the mirror, if he could brush that hair, touch that mouth. Feel the lovely, soft shape of him beneath his hands.

His mother blinks, sucks in a breath, and turns away from him, starting the coffee machine. "In answer to your question; yes," he says. "He's at work. Should be home around six." He hesitates, before adding in a way that they both know is a lie; "He'll be happy to see you, too."

Hannibal's mouth twists, and he huffs out a breath.

"Are you staying long? Are you back in the country for good? Your room hasn't been touched; there's a bed there you can use if you don't want a hotel. Or -. Christ," he says, running a hand through his hair. "I've only just realized how much there is to catch up on. Please tell me you'll stay for dinner."

"Of course, mama," Hannibal says, and smiles when his mother lets out a sweet little breath of relief. He touches Will's arm, pleased to conjure another small shiver through him at his touch. "I'll go unpack some things, and then we can talk."

"I'd like that," he replies, his voice turning somewhat wistful again. Hannibal cannot imagine how lonely he must be, home alone all day with no one to talk to. They had a dog, before Hannibal went to boarding school, but he sees no evidence of it now. He frowns to himself, for he doesn't think the animal was too old that he died of natural causes while he was away, and hates the idea that his stepfather made his mother get rid of it.

His room is just how he left it; utilitarian for the most part, though the bookshelves are bulging and threatening to collapse in several places from the weight of so many notebooks, sketchbooks, and reading material. His bed looks far too small for him now, but will be manageable, and he places his suitcase in front of the writing desk he used to sketch and do his homework at.

The air is stale, in here, and he purses his lips and opens the window, wanting to air it out. The scent of juvenile alpha is not pleasant to him, even though it's his own scent. There is a single picture on the writing desk, of himself and his mother, before he mated with Hannibal's stepfather. They're in front of the Air and Space museum in D.C., lit with the sun, smiling widely. He cannot think of the last time he saw his mother smile like that.

He sighs, and returns to the kitchen in time for the coffee to be poured. His mother brings a little jar of creamer, and some sugar to the table in the corner of the kitchen, and they both sit. He looks beautiful like that, lit from the window at their sides, his eyes bright with the lovely gold of a happy omega.

He sips at his coffee, and Will sighs, shaking his head. "I feel like it's been a lifetime since I saw you," he murmurs, his voice turning heavy, eyes dark. He cried when Hannibal went away.

"It has," Hannibal replies.

"How did you like it over there? I'm sure you did – did you make friends? Or find a mate?" Hannibal smiles at his mother's rambling; he gets like that when he's nervous, and since Hannibal has been gone for so long, even as his son, the alpha scent of him is likely overwhelming. "And are you back now? Do you have a place to stay?"

He reaches out, and takes his mother's hand, so that he ceases his nervous chatter. Will presses his lips together, blushing heavily, realizing just how much he's been talking. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. He takes his hand away and pets over the back of his neck.

"I don't mind the questions, mama," Hannibal says kindly, "but you were beginning to look very anxious."

His blush deepens, such a lovely pink, and he gives a demure huff and nod.

"In answer, I loved it, although I hated being away from you," Hannibal continues, straightening and sipping at his coffee between statements. "The people were kind, the architecture and sights were astounding, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself."

"I'm glad," Will replies, soft and wistful. "I always wanted to go myself, one day. To Paris, but you know how it is."

Hannibal does. His stepfather would never allow his mother to leave the country unescorted, and he was always so busy with his work that there was never time. Never time for Hannibal, never time for his mother. Hannibal's lips twitch down, but he schools the expression before it can be seen.

"Perhaps you and I will go together," he suggests. He is certain his mother, clever as he is, has been keeping the cheques his biological father sends, squirreling it away for emergencies. He used to talk of moving to the country, getting more animals, more land. Building a house perfectly suited to his needs, with a room for him to nest in separately. More rooms for children.

And yet, he is in the same house Hannibal left him, with the same boring and stale man, with a single room untouched to his only son like a shrine.

Predictably, he shakes his head, and fixes Hannibal with a sad smile. "Maybe," he says, though they both know they won't. Before Hannibal had been sent away, his stepfather was loathe to even let him go to the next town over unescorted, and Hannibal doubts he's gotten calmer since. He's a possessive man – aware, probably, that Hannibal's mother is far too good for him. Too beautiful, too lovely, far too intelligent.

"Are you back in town for good, then?" he asks, soft with hope. His voice makes Hannibal ache, it's been far too long. Phone bills are too high, and their letters and emails to each other came without frequency, and after a while, petered off completely. Another thing, Hannibal suspects, that his stepfather is to blame for. No dog, no additional children, no absent son; he doesn't want anything in Hannibal's mother's life that isn't him.

He nods, smiling when his mother's eyes shine with relief. "You can stay here, if you'd like to," he offers, and Hannibal's smile widens with anticipation, knowing how Jonah will react to the idea. He won't like it, but Hannibal is bigger now, stronger, and more than capable of defending himself. He has no need to be respectful and courteous when he can see how deeply unhappy his mother is.

He would be so much happier with Hannibal; Hannibal would make certain of it. If Will wants land, wants more children, wants fine clothes and good food and trips to foreign and exotic places, Hannibal can give him all of that.

"I would love to," he replies, and his mother's shoulders drop again, his smile wide, a sweet little purr rumbling in his throat. It sounds hoarse, like he doesn't do it often, and Hannibal adds another strike against his stepfather. Omegas should be constantly purring, sated, happy; it is the role of the alpha or beta to ensure they are. How could anyone possibly look at his mother and not want to make him forever sick with joy?

He sips at his coffee again, and clears his throat. "What happened to Buster?" he asks. He had never particularly cared for the dog, except his mother loved it so he had loved it. Buster had been a yippy little thing, much too excitable, but a capable little hunter. He would often walk with Hannibal and come home with squirrels and tiny birds locked between his jaws.

His mother's eyes darken, and he presses his lips together. "I gave him to a friend of mine," he replies. "He, ah, the house didn't have enough room of him."

Hannibal's brows rise. There had certainly been enough room for him for all the years of Hannibal's teenhood. The house has no more furniture in it than before, and certainly hasn't shrunk.

His mother clears his throat, and rises. "I'll get started on dinner."

"Mama," Hannibal says, standing quickly and catching him at the shoulder, turning him around so their eyes can meet. He cups his face when his mother tries to pull away. "Mama, look at me." He does, irises shining with water he refuses to let fall. Hannibal presses his lips together, smooths his thumbs over his mother's cheeks. "Are you happy here?"

His brow furrows, and he utters a shaky, forced laugh. "Of course I am," he replies, like the alternative is foolish. He pushes Hannibal away from him and continues to the kitchen. "I have a comfortable, familiar home, an attentive mate, and my son has returned to me. Of course I'm happy."

'Comfortable' and 'familiar' are pretty words for 'boring'. 'Attentive' is a nice way to say 'controlling'. Hannibal forces himself not to say anything, merely follows him to the kitchen; a tame chase that ends with his mother by the fridge, the door open so he can gather what he intends to make for dinner.

Hannibal reaches out, flattens his hand over the omega's, halting him in place. He leans in, and nuzzles his mother's neck, both to soothe and to make him shiver in that delightful way again. "Let me cook for you," he offers, making his voice low. Watches the pink on his mother's cheeks darken. "My college roommate was a capable chef, and taught me how."

His mother turns to him, blinking in surprise. "An omega?" he asks, but hands the food over. Ground turkey, pastry dough rolled into a sheet to bake. Nothing from scratch, but that's alright; Hannibal grew up on food that was welcome and warm, no flair or grandeur, because his mother is a simple man when all's said and done, and capable only of what he was taught, before he was forever robbed of the opportunity to learn more.

He smiles, and takes the food. "Alpha female," he corrects, setting it down. "The dormitories were separated by secondary gender, in the hopes of dissuading ill-thought matings or accidental pregnancies."

His mother huffs, at his back, fishing out onions and frozen peas, as well as some stock for the pie. "I was never worried about that," he replies. "For you, I mean." Hannibal nods, absently; his mother had gone out of his way to explain to Hannibal all about the primary and secondary genders, the effects of heat and rut, of presenting, the consequences therein. He never wanted Hannibal to do to him what his father had done.

"Mating should be done out of love," he had said. "Children should be born into it. Promise me you will be careful."

And Hannibal had promised, vowed it, branded the words into his bones. He has only ever loved one person in his entire life, and no sweet young omega, no peer in his classes, no night of indulgent revelry could ever make him forget eyes the color of sea glass and steel, that dimpled smile showing fangs far sharper than most omegas, and the scent of home.

Will joins him at the counter, lips pursed, and then shakes his head and takes the pastry dough back. "I have some potatoes we should use instead," he says. "We can make shepherd's pie."

"It's only shepherd's pie when it's lamb," Hannibal replies with a smile. "It's cottage pie when it's beef. Ocean pie for fish."

Will laughs, and fixes him with a raised brow. "What about turkey, then, Mister Know-it-all?" he teases.

Hannibal shrugs. "I don't know. I don't believe there is a specific name for it."

Will hums, and fishes out a large pan, turning on the nearest hob and pouring some olive oil into it, placing the meat inside once unwrapped from its packaging. They stand close together, for the kitchen doesn't leave much room otherwise, and Hannibal boils water and sets the bag of peas inside it to get them to defrost faster.

They talk, during; Hannibal tells him about Paris, and his summer trips to Rome and Valencia and Nice. Tells him about his studies and the friends he made. None of whom he misses, now, with the scent of his mother in his nose and the familiar weight of home on his shoulders. Hannibal is not prone to attachment; every part of his mind dedicated to strong bonds had been taken over long before he left.

And Will smiles, and laughs with him, an occasional shoulder nudge or Hannibal nuzzling his hair exchanged, until he is certain his mother smells more like him than anything else.

Will mashes potatoes and mixes them with shredded cheese while Hannibal handles the meat, adding onions once it's browned, and breathing in the scents of the food. His stomach rumbles impatiently, his mouth waters, though he's not sure he can blame that on the food.

By the time the dish is ready for baking, Will looks like Hannibal remembers him; sweet, flushed, golden-eyed and smiling. Relaxed and happy. He so adores the scent of happiness on his mother, and kisses his hair as they leave the kitchen and return to the little table where the coffee has grown cold.

Will's eyes are dark, shining with water, and he sighs, looking at Hannibal like a long-lost love. He shakes his head. "I've missed you so much," he murmurs, like a confession in church. They never went when Hannibal was a boy, but it's impossible to live in Europe and not see the grand buildings on every corner, the amazing architecture, beautiful stained glass. Impossible to walk among the halls of them and not feel the reverence.

"I have a placement at Johns Hopkins, in Baltimore," Hannibal tells him, and Will's eyes light up. "One of my friends in Paris has a house in the city, and offered it to me in a lease. I intend to stay there."

His mother nods, shoulders falling again. "Yeah, the commute from here to Baltimore isn't great," he says, soft with understanding.

Hannibal leans forward, and takes his hand. "You can stay with me, if you'd like," he offers. His mother blinks at him, brow furrowing. "I can make you happy. Happier than you are here."

"Hannibal," he replies. Warning. Soft. He pulls his hand away and shakes his head.

"Mama, I can see how unhappy you are -."

"That's none of your business," Will snaps.

"It is my business," Hannibal replies coolly, tilting his head. "Jonah doesn't make you happy. Not like I can. Maybe he did when I was younger, but it's clear your needs are not being met here." More water brightens his mother's eyes, and it's all Hannibal can do to resist the urge to rise, to go to him, to take him in his arms and promise to take care of him. "I can give you a place to be free."

"This isn't appropriate," Will replies harshly. He shakes his head again. "I'm -." He breathes out, hard, nostrils flaring, and glares down at the little jug of creamer. "I'm glad you think this way; you have the bearing of a good alpha, and I know you'll be good to your mate. But I'm your mother. I can't just run off and abandon my mate -."

"He doesn't deserve you," Hannibal says before he can stop himself. His words come out biting. "And he knows it. He hasn't given you more children, made you get rid of Buster; I daresay you aren't even allowed to have friends."

Will bares his teeth, and finally, a single tear falls. "You don't know what you're talking about," he hisses. He wipes at his face, as though angry at the wetness he finds there. "You have no idea how inappropriate this is -."

"Do you not love me?" Hannibal whispers. His mother blinks at him, shocked by the question. "Is there nothing in you that sees the truth in what I'm saying?"

"Of course I love you," Will replies, showing his teeth again. His hand twitches, curls, flattens on his smooth, empty stomach. "I love you more than anything in the world."

"And I love you," Hannibal murmurs. "More than anything in the world. In every way an alpha loves their omega, in every way a son loves his mother." He reaches out again, and covers Will's free hand with his own. "I always have. You know I always have."

"It's my fault," Will replies. "I -. I didn't socialize you enough. You never had the chance to meet other people, until you went away. And I…" Another tear falls, and he pulls his hand from Hannibal's to wipe it free. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Yes, I do," Hannibal insist. His mother just shakes his head again, and Hannibal sighs. "I won't pressure you, I won't force you into anything, mama. I will never control or force you." He pulls back, and straightens.

"Come see the house with me," he says. Will blinks at him. "I'll need help arranging everything, making it into a home. Come stay with me, just for the weekend. And if you still want to come back here, at the end of it, then I will never speak of it again." His mother tilts his head, eyes dark. Tempted, Hannibal can see it. "Stay with me. Just for the night, if you'd prefer." He smiles. "I've missed you, and we have so much to catch up on. I'll cook for you and you can sleep in the guest bedroom and tour the hospital with me, and if there is no allure for you, to remain with me, then I will let you go, and you will forever remain just my mother, and my friend."

He doesn't answer, except to perk up at the sound of tires on the gravel driveway. He stiffens, shoulders drawing up immediately in defense, and Hannibal immediately wants to tear apart the alpha that has made his mother so afraid of something as innocent as speaking with his son.

Will wets his lips. "He won't allow that," he murmurs.

"I'll handle Jonah," Hannibal promises. With teeth, if necessary.

Will swallows, and gives a single, slow nod. "Alright," he says, heavy and resigned. He rises, to go greet his mate at the door. Hannibal stands, as the oven timer beeps, to go fetch their dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

Since Hannibal's mother remated when he was a child, he can honestly say he never bore any active ill will towards his new mate. Jonah Kimble is a simple man from a simple, by-gone era. The kind of man who appreciates loyal and sweet omegas who keep the home and spread their legs when asked to. That is not an inherently negative mindset, God knows there are enough omegas in the world who still relish that kind of life, but by the time Hannibal was sent away, his indifference towards Jonah had begun to coalesce and manifest into something dangerously close to dislike.

Now that he's home, and has seen the kind of life his beloved mother has been reduced to – not only that, but how unhappy he is in such a life – he is seething with active hatred. He tries to school it, as he sets their dinner down, and watches as his mother opens the door to greet his mate with a loving embrace.

Jonah leans down to nose at his neck, and stiffens, lifting his head and immediately spying Hannibal. His eyes narrow, just for a moment, so quick Hannibal knows Will does not see it, before his expression melts into a welcoming enough smile, and he wraps a possessive hand around Will's waist. "What a surprise!" he greets jovially. Hannibal's eyes are focused on where he's gripping his mother's body a little too tightly. "Hannibal, we didn't know you were coming!"

"I wanted to surprise you," Hannibal replies, forcing himself to remain cordial. He is a guest, after all.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Will murmurs, and he sounds so genuinely happy, ecstatic, as he smiles at Hannibal from the clutches of his mate. Jonah hums, and sets down his bag, his hand sliding up to grip Will's hair tightly. Will doesn't seem to notice how white his knuckles get, and Hannibal doesn't know if he'd rather assume Will is trying to ignore it, or if Jonah is regularly so rough with him that it seems normal. "He's a doctor in Baltimore, now."

"Oh, so you have a place to stay?" Jonah says, brows rising. Transparent.

Hannibal smiles. "It needs a little warming up before I make it a home, but yes, I have a house that I will be residing in, in the city," he replies with a nod.

"Excellent," Jonah says, with a smile that on the surface is kind, but Hannibal is a master at reading people, and can see the savage, viscerally pleased light of triumph in his eyes. "Then it's good you're here – you can collect and move all your old stuff."

Will blinks, frowning up at his mate. "I'm sure that's not -."

"C'mon, babe, we've been holding onto it for years," Jonah says, tucking Will's hair behind his ear. Scent-marking, erasing where Hannibal has touched him. Hannibal turns away with a soft growl to fetch plates and forks. "It's about time we dismantled the shrine and let him finally make a home for himself elsewhere, don't you agree?"

The explosion of anxious omega scent is so sudden and powerful that Hannibal has to pause, breathing in deeply to settle himself. It would not be good for him to attack his mother's mate, no matter what the situation, not when he cannot guarantee Will wouldn't try to stop him, or run from him if Hannibal should do grievous harm.

Oh, but he could. He could do terrible things to his mother's mate. Thoughts of it has kept him warm many a night.

He returns with the plates to see Will frowning down at his feet, but silent, taking his space where he had been before. Unlike when he was just with Hannibal, the sunlight does not make him glow, but highlights how pale and sallow he is. The scent of his anxiety chokes Hannibal in place.

"I do apologize for taking up so much space for so long," Hannibal says, handing out the plates. Will stands to dish out portions. "Do you have anything in mind for what you'll turn my room into?"

"Who knows," Jonah replies with a shrug far too large and expansive for his body. It's a tight fit around the small table with three fully grown men, and Jonah has always moved like he needs to take up all the space in the world. Hannibal doesn't miss how his mother flinches, as though expecting to be hit, and for a moment, his gaze turns black. "Maybe a nursery."

Hannibal blinks in surprise, unable to school his shock in time. "A nursery," he repeats.

He looks to his mother, sees Will biting his lower lip and settling back in his chair, staring guiltily down at his food. Jonah grins and claps a hand down far too hard on Will's shoulder. "We've been trying for a few months now," he says, puffed up and proud. "Your mother has been running me ragged trying to get him all plugged up."

Locker room talk. Hannibal has always despised it; the notion that omegas are meant to be used and abused and put away wet. And he is certain that Jonah is lying, overexaggerating his mother's eagerness for the sake of appearances. His upper lip twitches back in a snarl, and Will meets his eyes, gives a tiny shake of his head. His eyes are wide, dark with anxious trepidation.

"Mama?" he whispers.

Will swallows, and looks down again, wincing when Jonah's hand slides up to grip his nape tightly. It's probably meant, from the outside, to look like a soothing touch, but Hannibal can see how his skin puckers around the tight grip, how his fingers curl and his shoulders tense.

"It's true," he finally admits. He looks up, then away again, turns his face towards the window.

Jonah smiles, lecherous and wide, and gives Will a condescending pat on the head, taking up his fork and beginning to eat. "What kind of doctor are you gonna be, Hannibal?" he asks.

"A surgeon," Hannibal replies. "In the emergency room."

Jonah hums. "Sounds like a high-demand job," he says lightly. "Long hours. Unsocial shifts."

"I've never minded it," Hannibal says. He can't tear his eyes away from his mother. His heart aches at seeing him so anxious, so sad. How can Will possibly tell himself he's happy? How can he possibly think that _breeding_ with this brute will give him the satisfaction and happiness he deserves? Hannibal can give him all of that, and more; he will see his mother brilliant with joy, with love, as full and wet as he wants to be. If he wants children, Hannibal will give him a score of them. If he wants a large home with lots of space for dogs and fishing equipment and a community where he feels safe and loved, Hannibal will give him that.

He swallows, and looks to Jonah. "It's worth it, to save lives," he adds.

Jonah huffs, and continues to eat. Hannibal manages a few mouthfuls himself, noting that Will picks at his food and pushes it around his plate, but cannot seem to stomach any of it. The stench of his anxiety, the low-grade sourness of depression, stings Hannibal's nose. No, he will not let his mother suffer through another heat and a pregnancy by this man's hand. He cannot.

He stands, after a while, and gives his mother an apologetic smile. "The time difference is catching up with me," he explains. Will presses his lips together, and nods, looking sadly down at his plate. "I think I'll turn in, and tomorrow I can start packing up my things."

"Alright," Will whispers. "Let me know if you need any help."

"Sleep well, son," Jonah adds. Hannibal fights the urge to snarl at him. He is _not_ this man's son. He is not his father's son. He's better than both of them, the only man in the world worthy of Will's love, and he will make them all see it by the end.

He goes to his room, not tired in the slightest, and sits down on his bed, his mind racing with all the plans and possibilities, all the decisions and coaxing words he will need to say, to convince Will to run away with him and never look back.

Hannibal has suffered a great many indignities in his life. Some of them unavoidable, like watching his mother fumble with food stamps and bear the curious, sympathetic, or judgmental gazes of adults when they realize he is the product of a bastardized mating, a single mother scraping by even with the monthly cheques from his biological father. Some of them were more a consequence of his environment; haughty arrogant people who came from money and looked down on him for his second-hand clothes and taste in homegrown American food.

None of it measures up to the awful, enraging experience of hearing his mother getting mounted. Their walls are thin, his mother's bedroom and bed lined up with Hannibal's. He has to listen, wide awake and seething with anger, as his mother cries and whimpers and the headboard knocks rhythmically against the wall.

Jonah's animal grunts seem so oppressively loud, and he can imagine his sweet, beautiful mother, his perfect omega, the love of his life, getting _fucked_ by this brutish, awful man, and it fills him with such a black, seeping mass of rage he is having a difficult time bearing it.

And that is not the worst; apparently Jonah is a talker.

"Yeah, take it, you little bitch." Hannibal closes his eyes, bares his teeth as he listens to his mother whimper in answer. Imagines him tearing at the sheets, trying to get away, pinned with a hand on his nape and another clawing lines into his hip to keep him still. Jonah doesn't seem like the kind of man to mount his mate face to face. Omegas are meant to be face-down, ass-up to men like him. "You like that? Like it when I fuck your greedy little hole?"

Hannibal tenses, at the sound of a hand cracking loud on sweaty skin.

"Answer me, slut."

"I like it," Will replies, and Hannibal snarls, because it is more than apparent to him that Will _doesn't_ like it. He doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. "Please. Harder."

Hannibal rolls onto his side, opening his eyes to stare at the blank wall by his bed. He presses a hand to it, swallowing down his rage as best he can as he hears Jonah hit his mother again, hears him whimper and cry out, hears the rhythm of the headboard slow.

"Mm, fuck, yeah, that's it. Take it like a good little slut," Jonah snarls, and Hannibal's upper lip twitches in answer. He hears his mother whine, the headboard going still. Can even smell, sharp and stinging, the stench of alpha seed. Knot too small to lock, to breed him properly. Will is fertile, Hannibal himself is proof of that; the fact that Jonah hasn't gotten him pregnant in all the years they've been mated is proof that they're a bad match. Hannibal should have a dozen siblings by now, if Jonah deserved the honor of fathering a child with Will.

He can't smell anything of Will. No slick, no seed. Nothing to say he enjoyed it. If Hannibal ever confirms that Jonah fucked his mother dry, made him bleed, knotted him barren, there is no end to the tortures he will inflict upon the man. His screams will last for days, his pain for longer; he will gorge himself on the man's flesh and feed it to Will in their shared nest.

He closes his eyes, and forces himself to purr, loudly. He hopes Will can hear it. Hopes he's soothed by it. He hears Will sigh, something akin to relief – for it to be over, maybe. He doesn't know.

Then, his eyes fly open, as he hears Will cry out again. "Jonah, please," he begs, his voice thick with pain. Hannibal sits upright, fingers curling, and presses his ear to the wall. " _Fuck_ , it hurts."

"You like it," Jonah hisses. "Good omegas like getting fucked on their alpha's knot, baby. Shut up and let me get you good and pregnant."

Will subsides with another soft, pained whimper, and Hannibal's black rage returns to him. The injustice of it all stings at him like an enraged hornet. This man, this degenerate piece of human filth, doesn't deserve to touch Hannibal's mother, doesn't deserve to taste him and feel how warm and welcoming he is on the inside. Doesn't deserve his gentleness, his sweetness, his love. Hannibal's nails dig into the wall so hard they bend back, and he breathes in deeply, wincing at the stench of alpha come that coats his tongue.

The law would not be on his side if he were to act now. This is the only thing that keeps him in place; there isn't enough evidence to justify slaughtering Jonah when Will bears no physical signs of abuse, no obvious cases of marital rape. He grinds his teeth together, closes his eyes, and rests his forehead against the wall, wishing with all his might that things were different.

He would be good to Will. Of course he would – he'd do whatever Will asked of him if it would make him happy. He can provide, hunt for, protect, and give Will children. He didn't tell his mother about the trust his father set up in his name, the sickeningly vast amount of money that came to him with a lawyer and a notary on his twenty-first birthday. He has money, more than he will ever need, and he can take his mother to Paris, to Italy, anywhere in the world. Buy him dogs and make space for them.

And at night, he would take Will to their bed and show him just how much Hannibal loves him, in the most primal way he can. Face to face, making love, if that's what his mother wants. Hands and knees and brutally mounted if that's what he asks for. Hannibal doesn't care – every touch to Will's skin, every kiss, every tease of his slick and happy flash of gold in his eyes would make Hannibal the happiest and luckiest alpha in the world.

That Jonah doesn't appreciate it fills his mouth with acid, and he turns away when he hears them both go quiet. Undoubtedly locked, Jonah spilling his dirty seed into his mother. Perhaps there is some degree of narcissism there, to be so angry that another man is sullying the holy ground that bore Hannibal himself. No one is allowed there, except him. Like an alpha staking a claim over his mate, Will's body was his before Jonah's, even before his biological father's. Hannibal came first, sat as an egg inside his mother's belly, and now he has come home to reclaim that wet, fertile earth.

It's his right, his duty, his destiny, to please and satisfy his mother. And he will do it, 'til death do they part.

Hannibal has always prided himself on his control, over both his mind and body, but he will admit it takes every ounce of strength he possesses to be polite and cordial with his stepfather, watch him squeeze his mother's ass and leave with a thermos of coffee in hand and a smug smirk thrown over his shoulder Hannibal's way as he emerges from his room.

Still, when the door closes, Hannibal allows himself a small reproachful glare. He goes to the kitchen to find his mother stirring sugar into a mug of tea. The coffee machine is full, but Will reaches out when he makes to pour himself a mug.

"Don't drink that," he murmurs. Hannibal's head tilts, but he nods and releases the handle. Takes, instead, his mother's wrist in hand, turning it so he can see the soft smudges of bruising in a line of fingerprints down the center.

He closes his eyes, breathes out heavily. "Mama -."

"I don't want to talk about it," Will interrupts, before he can say anything more. Hannibal shakes his head, sighs when Will turns to him. He can feel his gaze on his face, and opens his eyes, greeted by the sight of his mother, wretched with sorrow, shoulders hunched in. He takes his wrist from Hannibal's hand and covers it with his own. It's clear he's preparing for a stern lecture, or maybe something worse than that. Some boorish, brutish alpha display of aggression in response to Jonah's behavior.

Hannibal is better than that. His wrath will come, swift and inevitable, but he will never let the shadow of it fall on his beloved mother.

"Then we won't," he simply says. Will blinks, frowns, lifts his head to stare at him, sharp-eyed and wary. Hannibal steps up close to him, glad that he's showered and so Jonah's scent on him is not quite so overwhelming. He nudges his nose to Will's temple, gently brushes his hands down his arms. "We don't have to talk," he says again, smiling when Will shivers and sags against him. "We can just go."

Will meets his gaze. Tilts his head. "What?" he breathes, quieter than a whisper.

Hannibal smiles at him, rests their foreheads together. Will shivers in his arms – not from fear, no anxiety touches him now. His eyes, big and black except where they are gold, shine even in the low light coming in through the closed curtains. He's so beautiful Hannibal never wants to look at anything else for the rest of his life.

"Pack a bag," he murmurs, coaxing, fingers brushing feather-light up the inside of his mother's bruised wrists, measuring his racing pulse. Will's breath goes shaky, so quiet, his lips parting so he can suck in more air. "Leave a note if you want to. Come with me, to Baltimore."

His hands settle, one on Will's neck, over his heavy heartbeat, the other gentle on his mother's face. He will not let Will avert his eyes, won't let him look away. Will's lashes flutter, he swallows, gives a weak noise that feels more performative than anything else. He's not tense; no muscle in him twitches or moves to get away from Hannibal's touch.

Hannibal's thumb brushes over the sharp line of his jaw. It would be so easy, to tighten just one of his hands, to hold him still or draw him close, to lay claim to the soft sweetness he knows his mother holds in his mouth, between his thighs, for his own. He could do it and no one would stop him; he doubts even Will would stop him, if he tried.

His mother stiffens, flattens a hand on Hannibal's chest. He takes a step back and presses his lips together, lowers his eyes, shakes his head. His fingers curl and he lets out a helpless, tiny sigh.

"Hannibal," he whispers, and lets their eyes meet again. Hannibal drags his hands down his mother's extended arm, cradles his wrist and hand in both his own, lifts his knuckles to his mouth. Will shivers, a lovely flush darkening his cheeks, his eyes so overwhelmingly gold Hannibal would think him in heat if his nose didn't know any better. He is sure, absolutely certain, that he is the only one who can be blamed for how his mother is looking at him now.

He breathes out. "If you don't want to talk, then you must act," he says. Will wets his lips, nostrils flaring around his forceful exhale. "And so must I. One way or another, mama, I have to leave. If I stay, I'll kill him."

He does not say it to threaten. It is a promise, as sure as the sunrise.

Will nods, shoulders dropping in resignation. It's not fair, Hannibal knows, to make him choose between his son and his mate. It's not fair that he has such a steep advantage. He will soothe Will's guilt eventually; he can make him happy.

His mother nods, looks down at their feet, then at the coffee machine. He presses his lips together. "I can't bear to be parted from you now," he confesses, free hand rubbing over his mouth. His eyes close, lashes shining with tears, and Hannibal immediately pulls him into his arms, chest rumbling with a purr as his mother shivers and clings to him – more ardently, he is certain, than he ever clutched at his mate.

"Only by your command will we ever be separated again," he promises, kissing Will's shower-damp hair, breathing him in deeply. In answer, he feels nails in his shoulders and a soft, silent shake of Will's body, an overwhelming blossom of relief when his mother turns his head and buries his face in Hannibal's neck. "I love you, mama."

"I love you too, baby," Will replies, shaky and quiet. He pulls back, eyes bright with unshed tears, and smiles widely, cupping Hannibal's face and pulling him down so he can kiss his forehead. It's much more of a feat now than when he would do it when Hannibal was a teenager, and they both share a smile when Hannibal straightens, after.

Will laughs, sheepishly, raking a hand through his hair. He swallows harshly. "I'll…go pack," he says.

Hannibal nods. "I'll be here," he says. "Let me know if you need help with anything."

Will smiles. He looks so lovely when he smiles – even lovelier, Hannibal thinks, when Hannibal is the one to have caused it. "Don't drink the coffee," he reminds him, and Hannibal nods, eyeing the pot of it curiously. He steps close, opening the filter, breathing in. It smells like cheap grounds and old must to him, but there's…something syrupy. Sour like wine turning into vinegar. It conjures to mind molasses and licorice and – what _is_ that?

Whatever it is, it is certainly not coffee. Hannibal hums, and carefully pulls out the pot, dumping it into the sink. He pours the grounds down the garbage disposal, with dish soap, bleaches the filter and throws it away. He washes the coffee pot to a sparkling sheen and, by the time he is setting everything on the drying rack, his mother emerges from his bedroom. He has a suitcase and a duffle bag and Hannibal comes forward with a smile, taking the bag from him. It's very heavy, and there's something angular and metal inside it.

"I've called us a cab," Will tells him. "Should be here soon."

"Excellent."

Will's eyes go to the kitchen counter, where the coffee pot and filter tray is drying. His mouth twitches, a flash of wariness passing behind his eyes. He schools his expression, meets Hannibal's gaze, brow arching.

Hannibal smiles, and takes his hand. "No sense talking about it, right, mama?"

Will's eyes darken, he blinks, once, slowly, and his mouth spreads into a wide, understanding smile. "Right," he replies, and squeezes Hannibal's hand. "Shall we?"

Hannibal smiles, wide, his entire body on fire with victory and anticipation, and nods, opening the front door for Will. The door that locked him from the rest of the world, that kept him corralled like a beast in a cage.

"After you."


	3. Chapter 3

They ride in the cab in almost complete silence, only the driver's generic rock radio station interrupting over the whir of the vehicle. They sit on each side of the back seat, a middle ground separating them, and though Hannibal would love nothing more than to reach between the space, to take his mother's hand, or pet over his thigh, or pull him close, he resists.

Will has a soft undercurrent of anxiety staining his scent. It's gentle, but pervasive, and sets Hannibal's teeth on edge. He has never liked the smell of anxiety in omegas, even less so when the origin of it is the one he loves more than anything in the world. He wishes he had the ability to read minds, to peer into the dark, hidden thoughts of his mother. Will's expression is purposefully blank, his eyes out the window, baring the long line of his lovely neck, marred by the ugly bruising scar Hannibal’s stepfather left on him the night before. It makes Hannibal sick to look at it, and he relishes knowing it will fade, and soon, he will be able to replace it with a mark of his own.

When Will consents to it, of course. He meant was he said, as much as he was able to mean it; if Will merely wants to live with him, to force their relationship to something a little closer than proper but not completely damning, Hannibal will -. He will try. He has no inclination to coerce, he will not force. He will not assault Will in their marriage bed.

He loves his mother dearly, and wants to give him children, to share in the exquisite pleasure of his heat, to use Will's body as an outlet when his next rut is due, but he will not rape him. Never, he could never do that.

They pull up on a quiet suburban street, lined with townhomes on one side, single family units on the other. Hannibal offers his card for payment, and once that's done, the driver gets out with them to help with their bags, and then he gets into the car and leaves.

Will bites his lower lip, fingers kneading restlessly on the straps of his duffle bag. "Which one is yours?" he asks.

Hannibal smiles at him, and nods to the walkway just shy of their spot. The garden is barren this time of year, but there are beds for roses, for butterfly bushes, and any other flora Will might wish to plant and tend to. Will's eyes widen, looking up at the impressive brownstone, and he swallows.

"Hannibal," he says weakly, as Hannibal leads the way. "You can't possibly afford this."

"You're not the only one my father sent money to," Hannibal replies with another smile. He opens the door, pleased to find it unlocked, the set of keys and a summary of timetables for trash and recycling sitting on a table in the entryway, just as his friend promised. "My trust came to me when I turned twenty-one. We will not be hurting for money."

Will breathes out, a slightly hysterical edge to his soft laugh. "Of course," he replies.

Hannibal lets him in and closes the door behind them, locking it. "Shall we take the tour together?" he asks. Will nods, shedding his shoes and coat, and they leave their bags by the door. Hannibal reaches a hand to him, and after a split second of hesitation, Will allows their fingers to loosely lace. His hand is warm, but his fingers tremble.

Hannibal knows the floor plan, but has yet to see the space in the flesh. He goes down the hallway, noting the bathroom on the opposite side of the staircase. He goes through the kitchen, giving an appreciative once-over to the new appliances, the wide countertops, with more than enough space for feasts. They journey through the dining room, with its large, dark, gleaming table, the ring of antlers around the fireplace, the cabinets that he opens to reveal plates, silverware, and dining cloths. The study is next; a close-knit, intimate space, with another fireplace and thick leather couches and books on every wall.

Upstairs there are three rooms, a guest bathroom, and the master suite. Hannibal goes to that, first, nodding to himself when he sees the large bed, easily big enough for both him and his mother, should Will agree to spend the nights with him. The bathroom is immodest, and has a bathtub easily large enough for two men to submerge, with high walls colored a soft peach. The bed itself is dressed in black, and he makes a note to buy something else to dress it – something blue, perhaps, a softer shade, that will soothe his mother and make the space more attractive. There's a miniature arrangement of chairs and a table on an area rug at the foot of the bed, and Hannibal smiles.

The second room is a guest bedroom, functionally furnished with a closet, a dresser, and a twin-sized bed, also dressed in black. The guest bathroom is half the size of the master, with no bath, but a large standing shower with a door of frosted glass. Will can't take baths in here, so Hannibal makes sure to tell him that he can use Hannibal's bathroom, when and if he feels the urge.

The third room is utterly barren, and Will presses his lips together, stepping into it. Two of the walls are painted a soft, burnished gold, which would be almost ugly except the streaming sunlight makes them shimmer. The other walls are a pale off-cream, and the carpet is a pretty champagne color.

"Any ideas for this one?" Will asks him.

"Yes," Hannibal replies, and at Will's arched brow, he merely smiles. "I will need to go to the store to purchase amenities, and of course, food. Would you like to accompany me?"

Will blinks at him, such a telling moment of shock touching his face that Hannibal feels anger all over again at the actions of his stepfather. He doubts his mother has been asked to go anywhere aside from food runs in quite some time; doubts further, that Will was ever given the option to refuse. Will clears his throat, looks down, and gives a single, demure nod, as hopeful as it is heartbreaking. 

Hannibal takes his hand, lifting knuckles to his mouth. He kisses, and watches his mother’s shoulders sag, surrender and damning desire to be comforted. It’s easy, he’s so obviously welcome, needed, as he draws his mother close and presses his lips to Will’s temple, nose in his hair. He smells of windswept grass and deep rivers; wet and fertile and just begging for the gentle brush of sunlight.

He waits, because he will not push. Will’s fingers curl around his own, their hands trapped between their chests. After a moment, he sighs, tilting his head to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder, forehead to clavicle. His knee, so subtly it could have been brushed off as a shift of weight, nudges between Hannibal’s, seeking closeness. Seeking to be held and consumed, as any omega might need their alpha.

Hannibal kisses his hair, lets his free hand drop, gently takes Will’s wrist where his pulse is heavy and his skin delicate and thin, smudged with bruises. An omega can have their lethargy triggered here, when they trust whoever touches them. At their wrists, their necks, their lower backs, and their ankles, they are vulnerable to a loving hand, and Hannibal has every intention of destroying his mother with affection, ruining him for all others.

It is possible, though rare, for an omega to be so entwined and consumed by their alpha, so sick with love, that they reject the touch of any other person, be they friend, packmate, coworker, or stranger. Hannibal cannot think of a sweeter victory, if Will were to evolve in such a way.

His fingers encircle his mother’s wrist, thumb pushing to the velvet-purple mouth of the river of his veins, spreading spiderwebs up his arm. Will trembles for him, his fingers twitching within Hannibal’s, his pulse growing quick, his neck warm and pink. His shoulder is low, lax with trust, even when Hannibal tilts his head and nuzzles him, just below his jaw. How easy it would be, to bite, to bare his fangs and sink and hobble. He aches for it, deeper and more ravenously than he has ever hungered for anything.

Will isn’t resisting him, but he’s not reacting either. Perhaps it’s surrender, and that means consent to him, but it is not enough for Hannibal. He cannot fault his mother; between Hannibal’s sire and his stepfather, he’s sure Will has learned that not saying No and saying Yes are one and the same.

Not with him. Never.

He rubs his nose at the hinge of Will’s jaw, unable to help himself leaving a tiny mark of scent, and then pulls back with another kiss to Will’s knuckles, and gives him a wide smile. Will’s eyes are wide, glazed, the same shining gold as the walls of this room. Black as the sheets covering Hannibal’s bed.

His brow creases, confused, a flash of hesitant disquiet on his face. But he brushes it off, because if there is one thing omegas are good at, it’s being quiet and obedient and not asking too many questions. Hannibal will train him out of that eventually, but for now, it works in his favor.

“If you’re hungry now, we can have lunch while we’re out,” he suggests. He keeps a hold of Will’s hand and leads the way out of the room. “But I would love nothing more than to cook for you, as well.”

Will hums noncommittally, but seems pleased by the idea. “Sure, baby,” he says. He sounds tired, drunk on pheromones, on relief. Hannibal quite likes the sound of his voice like that; thinks of Will, heat-drunk and high on pleasure, thinks of him slurring everything but Hannibal’s name. So well-mounted he forgets his own. Imagines him, as well, in the gentle, sweet softness of a bath, or his bed. Imagines him sleepy and trusting, content to simply let Hannibal hold him. Eagerly baring his throat, spreading his thighs, letting himself be kissed and worshipped as he deserves.

Hannibal cannot imagine loving someone as much as he loves his mother, and yet with each moment, as the possibility of their future stretches out, he feels as though he is falling deeper and deeper into it. Perhaps it is his destiny to be sick with love, first, and for Will to be infected after.

It’s almost impossible to convince himself to release Will when their second taxi of the day comes, but he does, and climbs into the traffic side as Will gets in from the curb. “We need to get a car,” Will says, dreamily, like he isn’t quite sure this is real.

Hannibal hums. “I have arranged for one to be driven here by the end of the day,” he says, gesturing to the brownstone as it disappears around the corner. “Once I have it, we will go and purchase one for you, as well.” He pauses. “I assume the title for the truck is in Jonah’s name.”

Will winces, the lines around his eyes growing tight and deep. Hannibal did not want to break the bubble with the reminder of his stepfather’s existence, but broken it is now, and all they can do is move past it.

“Yes,” Will concedes. “But the house is still mine.” His breath hitches, fingers curling on his thigh. “I suppose…”

He swallows.

“What is it?” Hannibal asks.

Will shakes his head, and refuses to answer. Hannibal tries not to dwell on it, for Will is still sweet and lovely, his scent a gentle wash of spring grass to Hannibal’s nose, and holds none of his anxiety. If his mother is not distressed, Hannibal does not want to distress him. 

Their cab takes them to a joint grocery and household amenities store, and Hannibal resigns himself to having to shop light this trip, until he gets his vehicle, and one for Will so that they can make individual runs as they see fit. There are some things, however, he will not leave without.

They enter, Will shivering in the sudden wash of warm air that blasts down on them from above once they are inside, and grabs a shopping cart, bringing it back to Hannibal. In the middle of a weekday, the store isn’t overwhelmingly crowded, but still Hannibal has the urge to wrap an arm around Will, to keep him close, to not let him wander.

Justified, in his opinion: his stepfather knew it too, he was just too petty to allow Will freedom. Will is too beautiful to belong to just any man, far too precious to simply release, but the fact of the matter is there’s a bite on his neck and it’s not Hannibal’s and he doesn’t smell enough like Hannibal for it to be made obvious that they are together.

He rubs his nose against Will’s hair, hoping to correct that somewhat, and Will huffs a short laugh, like he knows exactly what Hannibal is thinking, and blinks up at him with those beautiful blue eyes. “Divide and conquer?” he suggests, and Hannibal knows he’s teasing by the dimples in his cheeks.

“I’m in no rush,” he replies evenly, and brushes a thumb along Will’s nape, above the collar of his coat. Will shivers, lips pressed tight, lashes dipped in surrender. “Unless you are very hungry.”

“No, I’m good,” Will breathes. He sounds drugged again. Hannibal smiles and kisses his temple, subtly nudging Will’s hands from the handle of the cart, so that Hannibal pushes, and Will is free to wander the aisles to his heart’s content.

This decision, and action, like everything Hannibal does, is premeditated. Hannibal goes down the food aisles, first, despite his natural aversion to getting cold things first so they have longer to thaw. He asks Will what he wants to eat, and then he waits.

“I’m okay with anything,” Will replies, just as Hannibal predicted he would. But his eyes gravitate towards the eggs, steaks, fingers brushing over cans of spinach, idly checking expiration on apple juice.

Hannibal puts everything he touches into the cart. Will wants iron, wants meat. It’s a classic sign of pre-heat; blood and sweetness to give him energy and thicken his body for the burn after. It’s rare for omegas to eat during their heats, so their bodies demand as much food as possible, like bears for hibernation in winter.

Will doesn’t notice what Hannibal is doing until they reach the aisle where the store has bed linens, thick fleece blankets, pillows, and other various cushions and sheets one might buy for a bed or an omega nest. Hannibal, admittedly, overplayed his hand, and was reaching for a blanket Will had yet to actually pay attention to; merely eyed it, curiously.

His mother blinks, as he adds it to the horde already gathered in their cart. His brows rise. “What...are you getting all this for?” he murmurs, weak and soft, because of course he already knows.

But Hannibal smiles, and tells him anyway; “For you to build your nest, mama.”

They’re the only ones in the aisle, so Hannibal doesn’t hesitate to call Will what he is. Will blinks at him, and then again, like he’s frozen in place and is figuring out how to reset. His fingers curl, so tightly his knuckles go white.

He breathes in, slowly. “You’re -.” He freezes again. Hannibal can’t read the emotions on his face, but Will’s scent tells him all he needs to know. He can taste Will’s pulse, feel how his lungs shake, smell, subtle but there, the frantic slickening in Will’s body, that sees someone whom he loves so much, whom his instincts respond to so viscerally, and is preparing itself for Hannibal. He knows no one else can smell it, doubts Will can even feel it, yet. But he will. 

“I’m getting a nest?” Will whispers, soft and sweet and so heartbreakingly unsure.

“Of course,” Hannibal replies. “That’s what the third bedroom is for. Unless you prefer the decor of the second room. Either way, yes, you will have a nest.”

Will’s eyes go bright, glacial, he clenches his jaw and swipes his hand through his hair, pulling it forward to hide as much of his face as he can. 

He turns away, and though every inch of Hannibal aches to go to him, to circle the cart and embrace him and let Will bury his emotions in Hannibal’s chest, it is so much sweeter, so much more delicious to watch Will openly weep. Hannibal will never claim he is a kind man, and love cannot gentle every type of monster, but it would be good for Will, to realize that Hannibal is not like his father, nor his stepfather. Forcing Will to experience this catharsis sooner will open him up to receiving the reality of his new situation later.

“Mama,” Hannibal says, with false concern; “Are you upset with me?”

“What?” Will murmurs, and meets his eyes. He shakes his head, and Hannibal would feel guilty about how stricken he is, at the idea of Hannibal mistaking his joy for anguish. “No. No, baby, I swear, I’m not upset.”

Hannibal nods. Lowers his gaze, subtly curls his fingers around the bar of the cart. Manipulative, for certain, but he learned it from the best. “I just want to make you happy,” he says, like a confession hooked and yanked from his chest. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

Will circles the cart, takes his head and pulls him upright, resting their foreheads together. “I’m happy,” he says, quiet but firm. “I swear.”

Hannibal smiles, and lightly pets beneath Will’s ear, teasing at his sensitive nape, measuring the rush of his pulse. Will stinks of budding slick, his body more than eager to react to the proximity and care of a strong, virile alpha. Will’s body knows Hannibal came from it, and is so eager to welcome him home.

He leans down and alights a playful nip on his mother’s ear, making him laugh in delighted shock. Easy, now, can’t let him plummet too soon. There is still lunch to consider.

He reaches into the cart and touches the blanket that was his misstep. It’s a soft brown color, lightly mottled like the pelt of an animal, and thick. “Would you like this?” he asks. He wants,  _ needs  _ to prove that he can provide for his mother. For his mate. For the love of his life.

Will’s eyes darken, looking to it. He swallows, and nods, once. Resigned, quiet, tantalized by the implication that he might be able to simply ask, simply look at something, to get it. Hannibal would give him the moon if Will asked.

By the time they reach the checkout, the cart is much fuller than Hannibal planned, but it is worth it to know Will wanted all of it. Hannibal lets Will unpack everything while Hannibal arranges for another taxi to take them home. Will looks a little starry-eyed by the time the total has rung up, in disbelief at the way Hannibal doesn’t break a sweat when he pays for it. Further, still, when Hannibal takes his arm with a smile and leads him towards the door. The cashier waves them off, a sweet-looking alpha female that gazes at them like they’re newlyweds, soft with affection.

Will’s cheeks are flushed from the oppressive heat in the store - and, Hannibal senses, from an internal heat that is beginning to build. His body, his instincts, still unsure where he stands with regard to Hannibal, his foreign and not-foreign alpha, will do anything in its power to make himself sweet and welcoming. They will command Will bow and defer and accept, until he figures out if doing such things are necessary for his survival.

They ride in the taxi in silence; a very different kind of silence. Now, it is heavy and anticipatory, thick-mouthed with saliva and bared teeth. Will’s breathing is quiet, but fast, his heart rabbiting so badly in his chest Hannibal imagines he can see it.

Will helps him carry in the groceries, and then Hannibal gestures to the bags where the blankets are. “If you’d like, you can get started now. I’ll call you when lunch is ready,” he says with a kind smile.

Will stares at him. Stares at the bags. Clenches his jaw and swallows. “How big should I make it?” he asks.

“As large as you’d like,” Hannibal replies.

Will hums. 

“Mama, what is it?” Hannibal asks, when Will still doesn’t move.

“I’m not stupid, Hannibal,” Will snaps, suddenly. There’s no anger on his face, no aggression in his scent. Quite literally, all bark. “And I know you’re not either. So don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Hannibal cocks his head. And, seeing his mother will not relent, dips his head in a small acquiescing nod. “I want you to be happy with me,” he says, honestly. Will wraps his arms around his chest, fingers digging into his ribs on either side. “A nest is one of the basic needs of an omega, as necessary as food or water or sunlight. A need I fully intend to see met.”

Will’s upper lip curls back, just for a moment.

“I intend to care for you in any way, in every way, you will allow me, mama,” Hannibal finishes. “Because you have gone far too long without it, and because you deserve all the affection, care, and love I can give you.”

Will’s eyes water, and he turns his face away. “I don’t need you to rescue me,” he says. The words are sharp, but his voice is soft.

“I know,” Hannibal replies. “But you certainly didn’t resist.”

“You didn’t give me much of a choice,” Will says.

Hannibal cocks his head to one side. “I’m sure I did,” he murmurs.

“No,” Will hisses, and faces him again, cheeks ruddy and eyes bright with fevered emotion. Even with all the posturing, the raised shoulders and bared teeth, he smells sweet as ever. Hannibal’s mouth floods with saliva at the show of his mother’s ferocity. “No, you didn’t. And you know you didn’t. How could I possibly choose between anyone, and you? You’re my  _ son _ . You’re  _ mine _ .”

The words cause a sharp flare of heat to spring up behind Hannibal’s eyes, settling like a purring animal at the base of his skull. He cannot help but smile, even as Will approaches him with fire in his eyes. 

“You want me to make the nest big enough for both of us, don’t deny it,” he demands.

Hannibal can’t deny it. He nods, with a somewhat helpless shrug. “If you want to, yes.”

“Stop -.” Will holds up a hand, lets out a sharp huff of breath. “Stop being so careful with me. Say what you mean to say. Tell me what your designs are, here.” Hannibal sighs. “You convinced me to leave my mate, the man I’ve been with for  _ years _ , Hannibal. You waltz in here from a faraway land and whisk me away to this...fucking  _ gorgeous _ house, and you’re buying all this stuff for me, and I know it’s only the tip of the Goddamn iceberg. So what do you  _ want _ ?”

“I think you know,” Hannibal replies. He hasn’t heard his mother curse like this in his life - Will was always careful, when he was a youth; he didn’t want Hannibal picking up bad habits. He wonders if he’s always been like this, or if Jonah has frictioned away his smooth edges, left behind something pulsing and ragged and ill-fitting to anyone besides Hannibal himself. Hannibal can polish him, return him to his diamond clarity. He is not imperfect, in Hannibal’s eyes.

Will glares at him, irises bright with lingering gold. “Say it,” he snaps.

Hannibal’s lips quirk in a smile, and he looks down at Will’s feet. “I want you, mama,” he replies. “Just you. In whatever capacity you will let me have you. I can give you anything you would possibly desire, anything you could ask for. Without hesitation.”

Will swallows. “You want to mate with me.”

“Yes,” Hannibal replies. May as well lay all his cards on the table now. Will presses his lips together, and looks away. “Just as I am yours, you have always been mine. Before my father sired me, I was with you, and I would never be parted from you again.”

Will’s shoulders drop. He presses his fingers to the inside of his opposite wrist, trying to self-soothe. “You meant it, didn’t you?” he asks. “About Jonah. You would have killed him, if I’d refused to go with you.”

“Yes,” Hannibal admits. “But not because of that.” Will looks at him, and Hannibal smiles. “It is not in my nature to be jealous, mama. Possessive, yes, I will admit that. But how can a lion be jealous of a worm?”

Will’s brow furrows. “What am I, then?” he demands. “A deer carcass for you to fight over?”

“You are my mother,” Hannibal says, just as sharply. “My mate. The love of my life. You have always been the man I love, the person I adore, more than anything in the world. I simply want to...show you that, mama. I want you to see just how happy I could make you. Even if you never consent to sharing your nest, your bed, or your body with me. I will never stop loving you. I would die before I did that.”

Will stares at him, helpless, shivering in place. “Where did you learn to speak like this?” he asks, high-pitched, bittersweet.

Hannibal shakes his head. “Before I knew what being an alpha meant, I loved you,” he replies. “I can’t simply stop now.” Will sighs, hard through his nose, his eyes bright with tears. Hannibal goes to him, takes his wrists, pulls Will close, and Will submits to it eagerly, lifting his nose to nudge beneath Hannibal’s jaw, exhale warm and shaky. Every inch of him trembles, and is wet, furrowed ground just aching for rain.

Hannibal pulls back, and kisses his cheek, smiling when Will sighs and does nothing to fight him. His skin is warm, blushing with moisture that signals his pre-heat, and Hannibal cannot wait to taste and smell how he sweetens as he approaches his most fertile days. 

“Do whatever makes you happy, mama,” he whispers. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Hannibal,” Will says, when he pulls away, stopping him in his tracks. He turns, to see Will staring at him like Hannibal is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Oh, what sweet pleasure it is, to have the man he loves look at him like that. Will clears his throat, looks down through his lashes, and sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Will you help me?”

Hannibal blinks, surprised despite himself. The construction of an omega nest is normally done by the omega themselves; a thing for them to invite people into, or retreat to for their own solitude. If Hannibal helps him make it, his scent will be entrenched in the blankets and sheets, unavoidable to Will even when Hannibal is not there.

“Are you sure?” he breathes.

Will smiles, and nods. “Yes,” he replies. “I want you to help me.”

Hannibal’s heart flutters with joy, and he bows his head in a grateful nod. “Let me put everything away, and then I will join you,” he says. Will nods, and turns, hefting his bags and the haul from the store. He’s strong, despite his breed, and carries it all with only a slight huff to betray how heavy it all is. 

“Be quick,” Will tells him with one of his sweet, dimpled smiles. Then, he leaves, dragging everything upstairs. Hannibal watches him go, flooded with anticipation, and then he hurries to bring the groceries to the kitchen, so that he can put everything away and return to his mother’s side, where he belongs.


	4. Chapter 4

Just as Hannibal had not been prepared for how deeply it would affect him, to once again share space with his mother and hear him be mounted by a man who did not, in any way, deserve him, Hannibal is once again struck mute with sheer joy, overpowering awe and love that makes him feel sick, as he and his mother enter the golden-walled room with Will’s bags and their haul from the store, and begin to build his nest.

They take the mattress from the second room and use it as the base, covering it with a set of sheets that are blue and white swirled together like mixing paint. With knees to the ground, shoulders hunched, they push it to the corner of the room, where the sun will bathe it come afternoon. Hannibal cannot think of a lovelier sight than his mother, kissed and caressed by sunlight, draped with blankets and sheets and naked beneath, simply basking in the comfort of his nest, and Hannibal’s scent.

He takes the first offered blanket with hesitation, opening the packaging with ease and care while Will tears into the wrapping around the soft, mottled brown blanket Hannibal purchased for him. He throws it across the mattress, haphazard, without a care for where the corners are meant to lie. Hannibal watches, a smile on his face, as Will crawls up into the center of the mattress and, from the first blanket, begins to fashion a bowl.

He looks to Hannibal, a brilliant, happy light in his eyes. “Come here, baby,” he purrs, and holds out a hand. Hannibal feels like there’s a hook in his chest, urging him closer to his mother, blind as a newborn as he reaches, lets their fingers lace, lets Will pull him up onto the bed until their knees touch and he’s wrapped in his mother’s lovely scent.

“Lie down,” Will coaxes, and then rises when Hannibal obeys, his feet sinking into the mattress. It’s a soft one, chosen with an omega in mind. Hannibal resists the urge to pet over his socked feet, and instead lifts his head as Will climbs off and takes the half-opened blanket he was working on, ripping the packaging off and draping it in a thick coil at Hannibal’s back.

“The process of structuring a nest is as unique as the omega that makes it,” Will tells him, absently, the same gentle lecturing tone he used to use when telling Hannibal to mind the hot stove, teaching him how to gut and descale a fish, how to properly put on a condom. Hannibal has often thought his mother would make an excellent teacher. “It’s why they can’t just be given as gifts.”

Hannibal knows this. It’s the only thing that prevented him from making one himself. He could only supply the room. Omega nests are tricky things and he would never risk building one wrong.

Will smiles, seeing he is attentive, but content to remain quiet. Will finishes with his first blanket and takes a second one, unwrapping the string made to feel like a bow and throwing it to one side. He unravels it, sighing as it settles across his lap, the soft fleece underside white, the velveteen top a dark, gunmetal grey.

“Here,” he says, and pushes it against Hannibal’s chest. “Mark this.”

Hannibal obeys, gathering it up and resting it below his cheek as he watches his mother take another blanket, this one more sheer and lightweight, and remove the packaging. He takes Hannibal’s wrist and guides the blanket around it, and around the back of his neck, dragging it gently across Hannibal’s exposed skin so it gains his scent. 

Watching an omega build their nest is an unbearably intimate act, but even more so is to take an active role in its construction. Will is not merely building a nest with Hannibal’s presence in mind; he is physically using him as a support and a guide for the size of it. Hannibal closes his eyes as Will stands again, draping the blanket around Hannibal’s head and pushing it into place. 

He kneels, and leans down, fingers gentle in Hannibal’s hair, nuzzling to gain his attention. He smiles, as sweet and soft as ever, and wraps a finger beneath Hannibal’s chin.

“Up,” he says, and Hannibal lifts his head, pushing himself upright, as Will takes the grey blanket from him and finishes the bowl. It is wide enough for them both, though barely, and they will have to be curled up very close to make room. His mouth feels too warm and wet, his teeth too sharp.

Will bids him leave the nest, but does not let him go far. Occasionally Hannibal is ordered to touch or otherwise mark something before it is added to the nest. It feels as though he is a small amount of paint, being used to brush warmth and love into the structure. The air stinks of both of them, Will’s body perma-warm with growing fever, Hannibal helpless but to sweat in response to it. Every instinct in him demands he cover, mark, give praise and adoration like he might to any deserving god.

He clears his throat, and straightens, for if he remains, he will ravish his mother in his half-made nest, and the role of impatient, brutish aggressor is never one he wishes to play for Will. Will looks up at him, lit from behind with sunlight, his beautiful eyes shining like liquid gold.

“I’ll make us something to eat,” Hannibal suggests.

He receives a smile, for that, a dip of long lashes over pink-blushed flesh. Mottled red like bruised roses, tempting, it’s so tempting, to feel how his mother might give beneath his teeth. Every inch of him is both trembling and static, locked like a trigger gently caressed by a fingertip. 

He forces himself to leave, because it’s all he can do, and makes his way back downstairs. The lower floor is cooler, and the kitchen is flooded with sunlight, dancing off metal and granite both. He presses his hands to the cold countertops and breathes in. Will’s scent chases him down, but cannot reach this far, neutral as the rest of the house is. Soon, though, he will seep and soak through all of it and surely drive Hannibal to madness.

He has unpacked the groceries, and now he takes out a thick cut of ribeye his mother chose. It’s deliciously marbled with a thick side of fat around the edge, the bone of it sticking out just a little way. The meat itself is a brilliant red, and while Hannibal would have preferred their meal be the result of something he hunted and harvested himself, it will make a fine offering until Hannibal has the time.

He takes out a deep pan and pours oil into it, turning on the heat and ears pricked for when it begins to sizzle and pop. He takes the steak and lays it out on a board beside the pan, and then gathers fresh spinach, feta cheese, walnuts, and strawberries which he slices very thinly, craisins - again, he will begin to dehydrate and garnish himself, once he has the time and tools - and chopped lettuce. He mixes it all into a bowl with a light drizzle of raspberry balsamic and covers it with plastic wrap, setting it back in the fridge, all the while mentally noting the appliances he will need to purchase to give him the widest ability in this new kitchen. He has a hoard of recipes he wants to try to make, now that he has the space and the time to make them, not to mention a wholehearted guinea pig that he can share it with.

As the oil begins to pop and crackle in the pan, he takes the steak and lays it within the oil, smiling as it immediately begins to violently sear, the rich scent of meat flooding his nose and making his mouth water. He lets it rest, and flips it at the two minute mark, then the edges so all the dripping juice is locked in, and then lowers the heat and covers the pan with a lid so it can cook to the warm red center he remembers his mother prefers

He turns, then, at a gust of displaced air that brings with it a scent more lovely than the food, to see Will at the door, already low-lidded and sleepy-looking, as omegas often become after building their nests. It's both physically and emotionally taxing, and Hannibal goes to him, takes him in his arms and plants a greeting kiss to his temple.

"Just a little longer," he says, and Will gives a soft hum in answer. "Would you like something to drink?"

He nods. They didn't buy any wine this trip, so he asks for water, and Hannibal fills a glass from the fridge door with ice and water and sets it on a coaster on the kitchen island. Will takes a grateful sip, and then a longer draw, wincing at the cold against his teeth, but makes no sound or other complaint.

His eyes fall to the meat, and Hannibal turns to it as well, breathes in to test its readiness. A few minutes more, perhaps.

"Do you remember when you were…. I think you were thirteen," Will says, and Hannibal meets his dark eyes. "Mother's Day. You brought me breakfast in bed." He takes another drink of water. "Mint-chocolate-chip pancakes. You made them yourself, from scratch."

"I remember," Hannibal replies softly.

Will smiles, and looks down. "You've always been trying to take care of me," he says, voice quiet but unbearably affectionate. "Did you do that because you wanted to? Or because you thought you should?"

Hannibal's head tilts. 

“Did you meet your father?” Will asks. “When you got your trust. When you were over there. Did you ever actually meet him?”

“Yes,” Hannibal confesses. Clearly not the answer his mother was expecting, as his head shoots up and his eyes go wide. “It was very brief. Purely business.” It’s cruel to say; “He didn’t ask about you, nor did he show much interest in me aside from confirming I was, in fact, his son. As you said, I look like him; it only took a moment.”

Will presses his lips together, and gives a single nod. “I need you to understand, Hannibal, that your father and I never had any...big plans for the future. We met and conceived you within a week.” A wry smile tilts the corners of his mouth up. “He stayed with me for my heat, but we met before it. I consented. And when it was done, he left. I told him you existed because I wanted him to know. Again, not from any emotional basis, but because he comes from money and I didn’t want people chasing us down, or someone on his side finding out and digging around our business. That’s when the money started coming.”

Hannibal frowns. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I need you to understand that I love you more than anything in the world, and I don’t regret a single thing I’ve done when it comes to raising you on my own. Your father’s obligation to me doesn’t have to be inherited like everything else you got from him.” 

Hannibal blinks, for a moment shocked into stillness. Will gives him a sad smile, and nods to the stove behind him. “I think it’s ready.”

Hannibal’s exhale comes slowly, and he turns away, lifting the lid to a cloud of steam and placing it to one side. The removal of the meat and the plating of it feels like he does it on auto-pilot, but he does it, and sets the steak in front of Will, with a knife and fork, and a generous helping of the salad on the side.

Will blinks at him, seeing there was no food prepared for Hannibal himself. His head tilts.

“I find it telling that you’re more concerned with my father’s legacy than Jonah’s,” he says. Will’s eyes flash, a flicker of gold coloring them, before he looks down, hiding behind his lashes and his hair. “Jonah was part of my life for much longer, and much more significantly. If even half of his boorish bragging should be believed, you were resigned to a future with him. The length of that future, though...” He trails off, smiling, and thinks of the odd scent in the coffee machine.

Will’s eyes tighten at the corners. “Careful,” he warns.

Hannibal hums, hands idly resting on the edge of the kitchen island, spreading wide. No intent to intimidate, but he’s standing, and he’s alpha, and he’s bigger, and Will, hunched over and already defensive as he is, will notice. Hannibal doesn’t reach for him, makes no move to impose himself in his mother’s space. Lets him sit, silently panicking, before he relents, and turns to clean up.

“Eat. It’ll get cold.”

He smiles at Will’s soft, displeased grunt, and waits until he hears the clink of silverware to plate, the gentle scrape of the knife and the braided-cord sound of it slicing through the tough sear to get to the soft, wet flesh beneath. A fitting metaphor, he thinks; to reap the reward, there will need to be some harsh, cutting truths between them. Hannibal is salivating.

“Are you attracted to me because I look like him, mama?” he asks, as he’s covering the rest of the salad and putting it away.

To Will’s credit, he doesn’t falter for a moment. Perhaps he saw the question coming. “No,” he says, and punctuates it by shoving a large forkful of salad into his mouth and grinding it to mulch between his molars.

Hannibal smiles. “No, you’re not attracted to me, or no, that’s not the reason?”

Will pauses, mid-chew. Swallows, loudly, and rubs the back of his wrist across his mouth. “It’s not the reason,” he says, and meets Hannibal’s eyes. “But I don’t know if what you make me feel counts as ‘attraction’, either.” Hannibal’s head tilts, and Will gives a helpless shrug, a bitter little laugh. “It’s primal, I can say that at least. I look at you and I stop thinking clearly.”

Flattering. And honest.

“And because you stop thinking clearly, you need to know if I am,” Hannibal finishes for him. After all, his biological father left - through mutual understanding, his mother would have him believe, and truthfully, he has no reason not to. And Jonah, the only other significant alpha in Will’s life, went the other way entirely; he became possessive and stupid and controlling. Love makes people stupid, there’s no denying that.

“Well,” Will murmurs, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. “Are you?” And before Hannibal can reply, he shakes his head and pushes himself upright, meal half-eaten, and paces back. Turns on his heel and gestures towards Hannibal again. “I know you want to mate with me. To nest with me. Why, how I fucked you up so badly, I have no idea, but it’s the truth and we have to accept it and move on from it.”

Hannibal’s lips turn down at the corners. Blaming Will for Hannibal’s disposition is like blaming rain for the grass growing. The soil, the weather, must contribute. And the seed must be there in the first place.

“So what does that mean?” Will demands, in the wake of Hannibal’s silence. “You can’t possibly agree that kids are viable, you’re a fucking doctor, you should know that. And I don’t even want any more if - if I have you. And I don’t -. I don’t need another Goddamn surrogate for you. I -.”

He brings himself up short, eyes bright and scent sour with aggravated, helpless sorrow. Everything in Hannibal aches to go to him, and he’s helpless to resist it. His mother’s cries, his tears, tear at everything that makes Hannibal feel alive, bids him embrace and soothe and offer anything he can to cure whatever caused them.

“You’re so young,” Will whines into his neck, as Hannibal wraps an arm around him, fingers in his hair, and guides Will to his exposed throat, where alphas can produce calming pheromones. It works to make Will’s shoulders drop, his heart calming, but he sounds so tired and sad when he sighs, rubs his forehead against Hannibal’s cheek. “You’re so young and you have so much more to see and experience, and you actually _can_ , Hannibal.”

Hannibal sighs through his nose, takes his mother’s hand and lifts it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. He smells of the steak and the sweetness of the strawberries, the fatty not-flavor of walnuts and olive oil. He smells of wet, open fields, thick grass, wild wind on a saltwater lake.

There is a monster in all men, and it devours and discards love, opportunity, gentleness as it sees fit. It can feast on fear, loathing, disappointment, savagery. It can be poisoned and made sick by its own desires. 

Hannibal will not force his mother into anything, but oh, God, his monster is hungry, and it just wants a little taste.

“I don’t want to see or experience anything without you,” he murmurs to Will’s hair, nuzzling his temple, letting his limp hand come to rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. His own hand releases, slides down Will’s shivering arm, drops and finds the welcoming dip created by an inward-sweeping flank and jutting hipbone. He leans down, gently butts his forehead to Will’s, lets him breathe. Let him drown in Hannibal’s scent - he so clearly wants to. His fingers curl and his eyes are black and gold, cheeks the same color as the inside of the discarded steak. Will’s monster isn’t hungry for that anymore. “I don’t care what happens, truly - every possible future with you is one I will happily have. A life without you is the only one I could not possibly survive. Just...please, mama, don’t send me away again.”

It’s manipulative. But it’s honest. Will’s eyes flood with tears. He clenches his jaw, curls his fist in Hannibal’s shirt, shakes his head vehemently. 

“Never,” he vows. His voice is thick, throat clogged, and he brings his free hand to Hannibal’s head and holds him tight enough it aches where their foreheads touch. “Never, baby, I swear.”

And then, in a tone that seems far too certain and far too vicious to be mere metaphor, he adds; “Fuckin’ kill anyone who tries to take you away from me.”

Hannibal smiles, thinking of Jonah.

Will’s fingers are warm, knuckles pressed tight to Hannibal’s head. Not grabbing any hair, not pinching, but settled at the base of his skull. Hannibal breathes in deeply, savoring the salt of his mother’s tears, now that his anxiety is melting away. He nudges, dares to brush their noses together, and Will answers him with a sharp intake of breath, fingers flexing on his chest. A flutter of lashes. Oh, it’s _so_ tempting, so damn overwhelming a desire it feels like fever. Hannibal _needs_ to devour him.

He holds back, even though his teeth feel too large and sharp, his head far too heavy and warm. He has no idea how he isn’t hurting his mother, for his grip feels far too tight, with claws. But at the same time as though he is caressing porcelain. Careful, must be careful.

“Hannibal,” Will breathes, so close that his exhale warms Hannibal’s skin, and Hannibal knows if he were to inch just a fraction further, their lips would brush. His other hand is in Will’s hair, it would be so easy to pull him in and kiss him. 

Will shivers, a tremor running down him so suddenly it makes Hannibal’s fingers clench and tighten, as though holding him together. “Have you ever wanted something so much it feels like you’re dying?”

Hannibal wets his lips, breathes out. “Yes.”

“I’m so afraid of you changing your mind,” Will says. “I can’t ask and have you refuse.”

“Then tell me ‘No’.”

Will lifts his eyes, and Hannibal sees, in the bottomless pit of that shining, hungry gaze, that his mother has absolutely no intention of telling him ‘No’.

In the end, it is not Hannibal, but Will who closes the distance. Who lowers his lashes and melts against Hannibal with a soft, sweet sound of surrender. Who gentles his hands and draws himself close as a mouse may seek shelter beneath a wide leaf to wait out the rain. His mouth is soft, lips warm and wetted with water and tears, his fingers curl in Hannibal’s shirt at his shoulder, in his hair, pull him in, and by the time Hannibal parts his lips and meets him halfway it feels as though they’ve been doing this already for a thousand years.

There is no awkwardness, no hesitation about it. They meet as easily as two puzzle pieces. Perhaps it’s Hannibal’s scent in Will’s nest, maybe it’s the fact that Will’s body, despite the distance and the other men it’s held inside it, knows that Hannibal is the one it was truly, literally, made for. Hannibal came from here, this holy ground, and it is his home. He’s come home, to his mother’s open arms.

His hand curls in Will’s hair and holds him, he tilts his head and slides his tongue in the space between Will’s lips, relishing how he shivers, the shocked little moan that escapes to be swallowed by Hannibal’s own mouth. The sound makes Hannibal snarl, deep in his chest, a hunger as fierce and sudden as he’s ever felt rising up in him. A frenzy, that he thinks might be closer to rut than anything else, which he savagely attempts to quell and calm.

After all, his mate is not in heat yet. 

Will pulls back, gasping, rosebud red splotched on his cheeks, lips a delicious pink, swollen. Hannibal bit, he can taste it on his tongue. No bloodshed, but the specific warmth of bruising flesh. He wipes his lower lip with the meat of his thumb and breathes in. Will’s scent clings to him, pressed beneath his nose like chloroform. It makes his vision turn very sharp, and very red.

His eyes have only black in them, pupils so wide that the gold and blue have been devoured. Hannibal’s hand still rests on his hip, Will’s hands both settled over Hannibal’s shoulders. Hannibal at once needs to put as much distance between them as possible, and hold Will close and never let him go. Needs to rip him to shreds and also protect him, _God_ , his head hurts, _mama_ ….

“Hey, hey….” There’s a hand in his hair, a thumb between his brows. He growls, deep in his chest, tightens his grip even as he’s embraced gently, fingers scratching over his scalp in a slow, rhythmic motion from the side of his head to the base of his skull, over and over again, thumb touching his forehead every time Will can reach. He sags, breathing hard, nose pushed tight to his mother’s scent glands tucked in the sweet, vulnerable skin below the corner of his jaw. “It’s okay, baby. I’m here.”

He clings to his mother, kisses his neck and closes his eyes. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, and wonders how his voice can suddenly be so hoarse. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He doesn’t see Will smile, but knows he is. “Didn’t you rut, while you were away?”

Even the mention of their separation makes Hannibal’s upper lip twitch. It’s soothed by another quiet hum, Will’s other hand sliding to the middle of his shoulders and rubbing a slow circle. He sighs, and shakes his head.

Will gives another hum of understanding. “You really have only ever wanted me, haven’t you?” he asks, soft with both amusement and wonder. Of course he has, Hannibal wants to say, but he supposes it’s obvious. You don’t need to be a doctor to understand that, in the absence of any desire or attraction, or when the person in question is due for one but is already mated and not in proximity, a heat and rut is useless. They are triggered by each other; ruts more so, and far less cyclical.

Hannibal has never rutted because his mate has never been in heat around him. The trigger of his own desires was never pulled, until finally, that kiss. A part of him knows it will only get worse. Will’s ability to calm him, as his mother, will not be able to beat back the savagery of Hannibal as a mate forever.

Will meets his eyes, and God above, they’re so beautiful. He’s beautiful, he’s perfect. Hannibal wants to crush them together until they become one, wants to chafe his mother’s skin raw and thread himself like webbing between the open wounds. Wants to rip out his teeth and replace them with his own so Will cannot eat or taste anything without him. Wants, _needs_ , to nestle himself inside Will and never come out again.

He’s sure he looks even worse than these desires make him feel, but Will is a mother, first, and isn’t afraid of him. “Come lay down with me,” he suggests, coaxing as he would when Hannibal would refuse to go to bed, refuse to sleep, wanting to stay up and spend every waking moment with him despite needing so much extra rest at that age. 

Will takes his hand and immediately Hannibal lifts it, grips Will and kisses his wrist. Ruts his forehead to Will’s shoulder and braces his teeth against the hem of his shirt, offended that it exists. Offended that it dares to put itself between them.

“Hannibal,” Will says, sterner now. He makes their arms drop and takes a step back, counting on Hannibal’s insane, ravenous need for closeness to make him give chase. And he does, like a dog on a leash, he follows at heel with his nose in Will’s hair, or dragging along his ear, or kissing the corner of his jaw. Always touching, he has to, he’ll die if he stops for even a second.

“I didn’t think I could love you any more fiercely than I do,” he whispers, as they approach the nest room. “It’s eating me alive.”

Will turns to him, bright-eyed, golden irises shining. “Does it hurt?” he asks, concerned, anxious. A flicker of saccharine guilt. No, _no_ , don’t be guilty, mama, it’s okay, it’s okay -.

“No,” Hannibal replies. He nudges his cheek to Will’s and breathes him in. “I am nourished by the mere sight of you.”

Will smiles, this secret and soft thing, as light a tease as that of Mona Lisa herself. “Come on, baby,” he says, and leads Hannibal to the nest. “Shoes off, there we go.” 

Hannibal’s hands are far from unsteady, but they do not react to his desires. It’s difficult to unclothe even a little with Will so near to him, distracting him. He didn’t dress up to visit his mother, there’s nothing more complicated than a button-down shirt and a sweater over that. No belt, and his shoes are easy enough to remove.

He manages to get his sweater off, though even the second without the sight of Will makes him ache, makes that savage hunger rise in him again. Will notices, and takes him by the hips, guides Hannibal against him and lets Hannibal clutch at him and cling to his hair, bury his face in his mother’s neck.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here, it’s okay. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to force you,” Hannibal rasps. “Or hurt you.” And he can, he can - he wants to, in that simple and primal way that animals who love each other have to hurt each other, to show that they can, and prove that they won’t, later.

Will turns his head, kisses gently over Hannibal’s racing pulse. “Don’t worry about hurting me,” he says. “Or forcing me. You’re not. Come here, come here, baby.” His voice is lower now, near a purr; a lullaby from Hannibal’s younger years. He remembers falling asleep to his mother’s gentle humming, a purr against his ear and a big hand petting his hair. He aches, he aches so terribly, starving and cold and overheated all at once.

Will bears him down, rests on his back and pulls Hannibal’s head to his chest, so he can hear his heartbeat and their legs can entwine. Just as they used to sleep when Hannibal would wake and find his mother in the throes of a nightmare. Just as Hannibal liked to sleep when it was storming outside.

He closes his eyes as Will begins to pet him again. Hannibal is larger and the nest is not wide. One knee is between Will’s thighs, the other leg slung atop him. His shoulder fits beneath his mother’s arm and his cheek rests on his collarbone, forehead to Will’s sharp jaw. He can hear Will purring, but he feels it when he rests his hand over his mother’s slow-beating heart.

The sound he makes, when Will reaches with his free hand and laces their fingers together, probably sounds closer to a wounded animal than anything else. He doesn’t feel close enough; clothes and skin and flesh. They should be bone to bone. He should be _inside_ ; he wants it so much he can’t see.

Will sighs, through his nose, and turns to kiss his forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

“Just a kiss was enough to almost undo me,” Hannibal replies. The violence and power of his desire took him by surprise. Just like every emotion he’s felt since their reunion has taken him by surprise with their fervor and fierceness. An unrelenting mouth gnawing hungrily at his spine until he cannot walk. 

“It’ll be better once we’re more settled,” Will assures him. “Once my scent merges with yours, once you’ve rested a little with me. I promise.”

Hannibal knows this. Objectively, he’s studied it, since alphas and omegas have their own host of unique hormonal blends separate from their beta counterparts that can make a difference when it comes to medicine and surgery. He knows rut-madness is a quick-but-bright burn. He knows once his instincts understand that Will is safe, is his, that they’re going to be alright and happy together, he will calm down.

A dark, snarling piece of him insists that he would be calm _now_ if his mate spread his thighs and let Hannibal plant his teeth in that lovely pale throat. He curls his fingers and huffs a short, ragged breath.

Will shifts beneath him, distorting the bowl of the nest as he forces it to acclimate to the reality of two full-grown men within it. It will change, and morph, with time and use, until it’s comfortable for both of them. He tucks his fingers beneath Hannibal’s chin and makes him lift his head.

“Gently,” he says, and leans in, claiming Hannibal’s mouth in another kiss. “Short.” Another kiss, chaste and warm, to his forehead. “Sweet.”

Hannibal smiles, closing his eyes as Will nuzzles his hair. “It’ll help.” Hannibal nods, absently, and turns his head, dragging in a deep lungful of Will’s scent, planting a warm kiss to the uppermost part of his arm where the hem of his t-shirt hides him from view. He noses it up, revealing the joint, the meat of his shoulder, the crease beneath his arm. In, further, to the tempting jut of his collarbone. 

He bares his teeth, ruts them against it, but doesn’t let his jaws part. Doesn’t bite. He is half-risen from the nest, Will below him, and good, _that’s good_ , that’s perfect. Lie back and let Hannibal take care of him. His purr sounds more like a snarl, he’s sure, but Will merely bites his lower lip and kisses his ear in answer.

Hannibal’s head snaps to one side, catching that sweet, bitten-red mouth. He cups Will’s face and pushes him down, arched up like a beast as Will gasps and clings to his shirt, moans gruff and short as Hannibal paws at his hips, plants them, tries to shove himself between his legs, to where Hannibal knows he’s wet and warm and so, so empty. Fill him, flood him, _take what’s yours_ -.

“Hannibal,” Will moans, clawing at his back - not discouragement, not in the slightest. He’s burning up and stinks of both of them and Hannibal can smell his body getting slick. Will kisses him again, both hands threading through his hair, tugging gently. Will’s teeth meet around Hannibal’s lower lip and the spark of pain makes Hannibal see red.

He rears up, planting Will’s wrists above their heads on the edge of his nest. Sturdy enough, he notes, that the wall doesn’t collapse. Will bites his lower lip, presses them together, stares up through the shadow Hannibal casts on him, little more than a delicious golden-eyed temptation made specifically to coerce Hannibal into falling. 

Will’s lashes flutter as Hannibal’s fingers flex, laying bruises over the ones his stepfather laid. Still, he merely stares.

“You’re not telling me ‘No’,” Hannibal realizes. Panting, heart racing. He’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t claim his mother soon. Will blinks up at him, slow, and Hannibal releases his wrists so he can cup the back of his neck and draw him up. “Are you?”

Will shakes his head. “I’m not,” he replies. “I’m not telling you ‘No’, baby. I -.” He swallows, lifts a shaking hand to Hannibal’s jaw. Breathes out a trembling, sheepish little laugh. “I’ve felt empty since the moment you were born.”

Honest. The most honest he might have ever been. Hannibal closes his eyes, rests their foreheads together, kneads at Will’s nape so that he can spread his scent and start the bonding process, encouraging Will’s body to only respond to him. To only want him. It’s a delicate process and requires time and patience, but Hannibal has that. Finally, finally, he has nothing to do but look forward to what comes next.

“I’m home now, mama,” he says, swears, vows in blood and ink and unyielding stone. Scars he will plant on his mother, marks he will bear in turn, until there is no second of the day he cannot find some reminder of the man he adores with his entire being.

Will’s eyes grow bright, and wet, and he nods. He welcomes Hannibal in for another kiss, this one deep and lingering and so good Hannibal feels no hunger, no soreness, no fatigue. He could feast on Will forever.

And he can. Finally, finally, he can.


	5. Chapter 5

They have been resting together for what feels like a lifetime and a single second all at once, trading the occasional deep, lingering kiss that only serves to fan the flames growing in Hannibal's belly. He aches with arousal, nothing in him except the drive to do everything that makes him an alpha, to his mother, to his mate. His love for Will feels like hunger, a relentless, unending void inside his chest that he can only soothe with another kiss, another reverent brush of hands up Will's arms, over his belly, across the tops of his thighs.

Its intensity doesn't feel like a stab wound anymore, but a deep throb, a heat in his head that flexes and purrs and makes his stomach ache. He's hard, he can't stop it and he knows his mother can feel it, though Will seems content to merely let him kiss and pet and does nothing to encourage nor discourage it.

There is no performative shadow in Hannibal's mind. He is not troubled by the idea that Will might be thinking of his father, or Jonah, or that Hannibal will not be able to satisfy him like they did. He knows he can, knows he  _ will _ , he knows he'll be able to give Will the best of everything because he loves him so much. It's an overly romantic notion, that sex is improved with love, but he knows that in this instance it is true.

Will was made for him, and Will made him perfectly for himself.

Will is not unreactive either. The scent of his slick is thick and warm in the air, so utterly sweet, like raw honey and cinnamon. His hands, warm, are wide on Hannibal's shoulders, stroking down his back, up through his hair. His mouth is eager, lips parting readily whenever Hannibal feeds him his tongue. He kisses like a hungry man eats; with fervor, soft little grunts and moans wrung from his chest whenever Hannibal finds a place he's particularly sensitive.

"I want to be inside you," he whispers to his mother's neck, feeling him shiver in response. A fresh gush of slick meets his words, choking him as he breathes in, plants another rough growl to Will’s bared neck. 

“Yes,  _ yes _ ,” Will gasps, pawing at what’s left of Hannibal’s clothes, arching up in such a sweet way, like they’ve been doing this all their lives. Hannibal has no desire to tease him. He rears up, tugging Will’s shirt off and over his head, and throws it over the wall of the nest. Will’s chest is flushed, and he leans down to lick, mouth parted warm and wide over his mother’s racing heart.

“We should be in a bed,” he says weakly, lifting his eyes to see his mother, head tilted back, lashes low over his golden eyes. The picture of decadence, the most beautiful muse Hannibal could ever ask for. God above, he could compose symphonies of his mother’s sweet sounds, write poems about his beauty, bask in his scent forever. 

Will shakes his head, fingers raking over Hannibal’s nape. “No. I want it here,” he replies. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Hannibal promises. “I won’t, mama, I swear.”

He nods. “Come here, baby,” he whispers, and rises, pulling Hannibal over him, close to him, knees gripping his hips and hands spread out wide to help him remain upright. It makes Hannibal’s cock grind thick and warm between his legs, and he groans when he feels his mother’s erection against his own, trapped behind their clothes. The presence of them offends him; he wants his mother bare. Demands his mate be slick and open and ready for him.

Heat burns behind his eyes, he can’t gentle his tongue, can’t soften his teeth. He bites, sucking flesh into his mouth, kneads his jaws until he can feel them trying to meet, taste the bloom of bruising muscle between them. Beneath him, his mother whimpers, but makes no move to get away.

Nails rake down his back, lines of fire that only spur him onward, hips rolling helplessly as though he’s already inside. He snarls, tears at clothing, whatever he must to get his mate how he wants him. The scent of his slick is a taunt; if he’s slick, he’s fertile. If he’s fertile, he should be pregnant, but he’s not, and that’s alpha’s job, alpha’s fault, he needs to make it right.

He yanks Will down by his hips until he can crush Will beneath him, grips the backs of his knees and folds him, calves hooked on his shoulders. Will gasps, scrabbling for purchase, but now Hannibal can see him, see his cock so hard and red, leaking, leaking like the rest of him. His smooth skin, pale and begging for marks. His entrance, smudged pink like chalk, shining and so wet. Heat comes off him like a wave, and Hannibal is suddenly so cold; he aches to bury himself in that heat, to wrap himself up in his mother’s warm embrace and seek solace from the storm in his own head.

He breathes out, exhale catching on his own teeth. Lifts his eyes to find Will staring at him, breathing hard, a dark bruise swelling and blackening the skin near his left nipple. Hannibal prowls over him, cups his nape and kisses him because that’s good, that’s safe, he can do that when the thoughts in his head turn far too riotous.

He doesn’t want to hurt his mother. He doesn’t want to turn so savage with rut that it causes injury, but every time he looks at Will, listens to him, smells or tastes him, it’s another domino towards the inevitable plunge.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, because it feels like he has to. Even the gentle resistance of Will’s thighs against his stomach, the limitations of his body, feel like insults to Hannibal’s psyche. “Mama -.”

“You’re not hurting me,” Will assures him, voice so gentle. He lulls Hannibal closer, kisses his chin and the corner of his mouth and his cheek. “It’s okay. You could never hurt me.”

But he can. He  _ has _ . By the nature of his very existence. Hannibal is not so stupid with love to imagine his birth was not very, very painful. Something must show on his face, because Will laughs, suddenly, and pushes himself upright, legs falling from Hannibal’s shoulders. Before Hannibal can give a snarl of protest, he’s pulled in and then rolled to his back, Will settling across his hips and giving his trapped cock hot, wet friction. Will is naked, there’s nothing stopping the gush of his slick from soaking into Hannibal’s clothes, making him chafe.

“I remember it like it was yesterday,” Will breathes, as Hannibal’s hands flatten on his thighs, flex, grip with nails. Will slides back and Hannibal snarls at him, only to go quiet as Will turns his attention to his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping them with slow, deliberate movements. Nothing to trigger a fight reflex; he knows better.

“You were two weeks overdue,” he continues, carefully drawing Hannibal free of his clothes, above the waistband of his underwear. He bites his lower lip, eyes black and gold, fingers wrapped around the shaft of it and slowly dragging up. It’s a delicious tease of friction that makes Hannibal’s breath catch. “Almost thirty hours of labor. You didn’t want to leave me, and maybe I wasn’t letting you as easily as I should have. I would have kept you forever, if I could.” 

He stops, inhale shaky, eyes bright and wet. “You cried and cried and cried. Whenever I wasn’t holding you, you would cry. Broke my fucking heart. All I wanted was to put you back in. I couldn’t stand knowing there would be times when I couldn’t hold you.”

His mother’s sorrow hurts him to witness; even worse, Hannibal thinks, to feel it himself. He sits up, pulls Will close to his chest and kisses him, purring when Will gasps, cups his face, tilts his head to let it deepen and linger. Hannibal flattens a hand on the small of his back, over where omegas are sensitive and easy to placate. He finds that there are two small divots there, one on either side of his spine. Will trembles when he brushes a fingertip feather-light across them.

His other hand finds the open land of Will’s nape, ready, so ready, to be marked and claimed as Hannibal’s territory. He kisses, closing his eyes when his mother sags against him, and his purr grows, for a moment, much louder, matching Will’s own.  _ Good _ , a red-eyed voice in his head seems to growl. 

He finds the strength and self-control to roll his mother to his back again, shoving the rest of his clothes off so they’re both completely bare. He draws his hand up Will’s shin, to his knee, brushes his thumb up the defined line of muscle in his thigh. Watches, rapt, as Will parts his legs obediently, and then throws his head back in a shocked gasp as Hannibal lowers his mouth, finds a piece of his thigh that is soft and soaked in his slick, licks it clean and seals the area with a mark of his teeth.

His mother’s reaction is immediate and unmistakable; Will likes being bitten. The flood of his slick is similar to heat, now, and it’s so tantalizingly sweet, floods him like the afterburn of good alcohol. He drags his nose up, breathing in deeply, pushes his hands beneath Will to lift him so that Hannibal can drink him down at the source.

Will moans, one hand falling to his cock, stroking slow in time with Hannibal’s heavy licks. He is in no rush, not when each touch and taste draws more of those wonderful sounds from his mother. Will’s other hand curls in his hair, tugging weakly, and when Hannibal growls and shoves his tongue in, thirsty and greedy, he’s rewarded with a heave of Will’s flushed body, another sweet cry, and the scent of his come as it stains his hand and belly.

He rises, snarling in anticipation, leans down and sucks Will’s fingers from his cock, mouth watering at the taste of him. A line of sugar around a mojito; he’ll grow sweeter with Hannibal feeding him properly. He’ll taste divine, even better than he already does.

He grips Will’s wrist, bruise-tight, to hold him still while he finishes cleaning with greedy, long swipes of his tongue. Will is watching him, wide-eyed, blushing, so beautiful for a moment all Hannibal can do is stare. Hannibal releases him, lowering his mouth to lick up the rest of the mess, delighted by every little twitch of oversensitivity and raw noise he can drag from his mother as he licks him clean.

It’s easy to bring his fingers in, slide three of them flat over Will’s dripping hole. He presses, wide, growls when the tip of his middle finger sinks in and is welcomed by that ring of loose, warm muscle. Will’s fingers flex in his hair and he gives another weak little moan, gasping as Hannibal curls all but his middle finger and sinks in deeper. 

He licks his mother’s half-hard cock, drinks the beads of come clinging to the tip, lets the excess saliva in his mouth drip and encase him before he draws Will between his lips, cheeks hollowing as he sucks. Will moans, loud and ragged, writhing in the nest, heels dug into the base of it as he tries to chase the dual sensations of Hannibal’s mouth and finger. He adds a second, pushing in easily, awed by how easily he’s let in. He was made to be here, always.

He sinks in, curling his fingers, seeking out Will’s prostate. He knows the instant he finds it; Will arches with another heavy growl, shows his teeth and claws at Hannibal’s ear, gripping his hair in a fierce tug.

“Stop teasing me,” he demands, wild- and golden-eyed. He forces Hannibal away from his cock, brings him up and kisses him with teeth. 

Hannibal is helpless but to obey. Everything compels him to stop taking his time, to simply take. There’s a hunger deep in his stomach, a counter-compulsion to feast and fill. To flood, with saliva and come and sweat. 

He rakes his nails behind Will’s thighs, lifts and folds him, planting himself between his mother’s shaking thighs. There’s no hesitation, there never should have been. It is with one hand in Will’s hair, Will’s legs braced against his chest, Hannibal’s other hand lodged into the rumpled blankets that stink of both of them, that he finds where Will is slick and open and ready, and pushes inside.

Vice-like heat grips him, and he thinks it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d had his fist inside Will; Will would still cling to him savagely, his body greedy and desperate. Every inch of sacred ground pierced by Hannibal’s cock is divine, the arch of his mother’s hips and chest up against him feels like rapture.

A kiss seals it, when Hannibal is as deep as he can go. Around the head of his cock he feels the hard jut of his mother’s cervix, but the angle is forgiving, and he knows he isn’t in pain. Finally, after all these years, the prodigal son has come home.

And it feels so right, nothing in the world has ever felt this blissful. The tight, wet heat of his mother is perfect, the look in his eyes overwhelms. Will wraps his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and clings to him tightly, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Hannibal leans down and licks at them before they can fall.

He wraps an arm around Will’s head, holding him tightly. Fingers knotted in his sweaty hair, nose at his cheek, he exhales heavily and spreads his knees to give himself a wider stance. Grips Will’s hip to hold him steady, pulls back just an inch and feels how Will shivers and snarls, angry at the thought of being left empty again.

Never. Never again; Hannibal will fill him until he breaks apart.

He thrusts back in, gasping as Will convulses around him, another orgasm dragged by its teeth to wet the sweaty space between their bellies. He clenches up around Hannibal, and Hannibal groans, burying his face in his mother’s neck. He has never known the inner sweetness of an omega, of anyone, and feels already the urge to knot. But he wants it to last forever, at the same time.

One of Will’s hands drags down his spine, grips his ass and forces him to fuck in again, to grind at the itch at the base of his cock where his knot will swell. He tightens up, breathing hard, and Hannibal closes his eyes, grips his wrists, pins them to the nest.

He kisses his mother with bruising teeth and starts a rhythm. Slow, long pulls out, forceful thrusts back in that make Will whimper. He’s strong, he needs his mate to know he’s strong, that he’ll take care of him, that he’ll kill anything that threatens to tear them apart. 

“Oh,  _ God _ .” It’s a sweet, plaintive whine, so desperate and raw, makes Will sound like he’s been swallowing sand. “Oh,  _ fuck _ , yeah. You feel so good. You’re so good, baby, my sweet boy. You’re perfect.”

Hannibal snarls, brings Will’s wrists together so he can hold them one-handed and fists his wild hair, drawing his head up and back, throat bared. He sucks a dark mark to Will’s pulse, over the bite his stepfather left. Bares his teeth and ruts them against the swollen skin. He’ll ruin this mark and cover it with one of his own. He’ll plant a ring of bruises around his mother’s neck, a collar to show everyone how much Hannibal adores him.

The sound of their bodies colliding is wet and rough and obscenely loud. His stepfather would fuck him dry, didn’t know how to mount him well enough to get him this wet. He wishes he had more hands, so he could grip Will’s hips and angle him up further, go deeper. Wants to claw at his back and tear at his neck and grab his hair and his wrists, his thighs, wants to touch every single inch of him.

His head burns and he can see a flare of red mirrored in Will’s black-gold eyes. Will gasps, gazing up at him, fights the grip on his hair to invite a kiss that Hannibal is all too eager to answer. 

Will stutters, panting, his body clenching around Hannibal again, and Hannibal slows, breathing hard, sweat dripping from him to stain his mother’s body.

“Come inside me,” Will begs, before he can ask. “Knot me.”

And Hannibal wants to,  _ God _ , he wants to, so badly he can barely see. But -, “Fertile.” It’s all he manages to grunt out.

Will’s eyes soften, and he wets his lower lip, sucking in a shaky breath. “I have the after-heat pill,” he confesses. Hannibal stalls, eyes widening, and meets his gaze as Will swallows, drops his eyes, a flicker of shame coloring his cheeks. Unlike Plan B, the after-heat pill can be taken up to seven days after unprotected sex to compensate for an omega’s heat cycle. Objectively, the thought that Will has them doesn’t shock him, though he wonders how on earth his mother managed to get a hold of them with Jonah’s leash so tight. 

He would never presume to control his mother’s right to his body. It is, after all, his decision, if he wants to become pregnant again. Will meets his eyes and manages a small smile. “We can talk about it after?” he suggests.

Hannibal smiles, and nods, leaning down to kiss him. They have all the time in the world, after all.

“I want you to knot me, baby,” Will says, sensing his acquiesence. Hannibal doesn’t resent his nervousness. Most alphas would riot against the idea that their omega would reject their seed, their right to breeding something wet and fertile. Hannibal is not most alphas.

He releases Will’s wrists and bows his head, purring as Will draws him close, and he lets Will’s legs fall, so they can wrap around his waist instead. Now, with his hands free, he can grip his mother’s thigh and lift him into Hannibal’s thrusts, which grow shorter, more fierce, the closer he gets to knotting.

“Yeah,  _ fuck _ ,” Will whispers, clawing at Hannibal’s nape, his lashes low, lips parted around near-soundless gasps, entire body jolting whenever they connect. “ _ Fuck _ , can’t wait until you rut for me, baby. You’re gonna make me nice and full, aren’t you?”

Oh,  _ God _ . Hannibal nods, helplessly mute, kisses his mother’s rushing pulse and digs his nails into his thigh. 

“Hannibal, please,” Will sighs, dropping one hand to stroke his cock, which despite his orgasms is still hard, blush-red and leaking. He slides his hand down further, presses on his perineum to get more pressure and friction on his prostate from Hannibal’s thrusts. He’ll feel when Hannibal’s knot swells, inside and out. “Oh, please, that’s it.” Hannibal snarls, snaps his teeth together, grips his mother tightly and presses deep, rutting in. “Yes, just like that, right there. Good boy,  _ fuck _ yeah, my perfect boy, come on -.”

Will’s muscles bear down around him, gripping the base of his cock so tightly Hannibal can’t pull out. The swell of his knot feels almost painful, a deep ache that makes him part his jaws and  _ bite _ , severing delicate skin and filling his mouth with blood as he bites down right over Jonah’s mark and claims his mother, finally, once and for all.

Nothing comes out of Will’s cock but his entire body shudders with his orgasm, slick pooling around Hannibal’s knot, and then Hannibal is coming too, and gasps as he feels himself flood his mother, so much thick come pooling around his cockhead, dripping against his cervix, slicking the shaft. His knot is big enough that nothing comes out, and a violently satisfied purr rumbles in his chest, knowing he’s made so perfectly for his mate, his knot large enough to plug him up and make sure he catches.

He withdraws his teeth from his mother’s neck, nuzzling the sore spot, and cups Will’s skull, drawing him in for a kiss that holds the taste of Will’s slick and Will’s blood. Will is slack, too fucked-out to respond as skillfully as he had, but that’s just fine, that’s perfect. Hannibal’s entire soul sings knowing he’s satisfied his mate, his mother, his Will so well.

He licks Will’s jaw, his sluggishly bleeding neck, over his collarbone. Latches onto one of his nipples and sucks as Will whimpers, petting his hair, squirming on his knot like he’s trying to test the seal. Hannibal growls, grips him and ruts in, wanting to cement in Will’s brain that he’s not going anywhere. He’s home, he’s finally home, and this is where he belongs.

“Mama,” he breathes, and brings Will to his neck. “Bite.”

He does, sharp fangs severing skin just as easily as Hannibal bit, because they were made for each other, and Will belongs inside him as much as Hannibal belongs inside Will. The flash of pain spurs another aftershock of pleasure from Hannibal’s belly, another thick spurt of come inside his mother, and he’s snarling in satisfaction, closing his eyes and petting Will’s hair as Will seals their bond with his reciprocal bite.

“I love you,” he murmurs, knowing Will can taste the words.

Will falls back, smiling up at him, the sheen of red on his lips just making him look even more beautiful. “I love you too, baby,” he replies, soft and sweet and so utterly perfect. Hannibal would light the world on fire if it would make him smile. 

Will cups his face, and draws him into a kiss. With his other hand, he takes one of Hannibal’s, wrapping them both around his cock. Hannibal smiles, obeying the unspoken command. The more and longer he can keep Will coming, the longer his knot will last, until he cannot physically give any more. 

They spend the day like that, past hunger and thirst, exhaustion and strain. The nest is damp with them by the end, soaked with Will’s slick and Hannibal’s come, when he finally pulls out and admires the thick gush of seed spilling from his mate’s red, wet hole.

Will pulls him into his arms, lets Hannibal rest with his ear to his mother’s heart and soft purr rumbling against his cheek. He sighs, closing his eyes, arms wrapped below Will’s back and two fingers idly petting over his rim, keeping Will shivering and on the edge until Hannibal can knot him again.

  
  


The only reason Hannibal kills Jonah quickly is because he is loathe to be parted from his mother for a moment longer than necessary. He left Will, fucked-out and sleepy in their nest, and went to the house, finding Jonah there, red-eyed and waiting for a fight.

A fight he lost. Quickly, and badly. 

Hannibal brings his body back and dumps him in the foyer, finding Will coming down the stairs, a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and his eyes wide in shock at what he sees.

“What did you do?” he demands. As though it’s not obvious.

Hannibal smiles. “I would have taken him apart at the house, brought you something to eat, but I didn’t know if he was safe to, what with whatever you’ve been putting in his coffee.” Will bites his lower lip, his eyes black, raking Hannibal up and down. He expected his mother to be horrified, but no, the look Will is giving him is certainly not one of horror.

He goes to his mother, takes him by his bruised and bitten neck and kisses his breath away. “Don’t pretend to have the moral high ground, mama,” he purrs. “I didn’t inherit my appetites from my father.”

“How would you know?” Will returns.

“Because he tasted bland and boring. And he put up about as much of a fight as Jonah did.”

Will blinks at him. Blinks again, and his eyes widen. “You killed him, too,” he says weakly. It’s not a question.

“As soon as the contract for my trust was signed,” Hannibal replies. Will merely stares. “He abandoned you. He wasn’t worth the air he took up.”

“He gave me you,” Will replies quietly.

“And for that reason, I was swift and merciful.”

Will swallows, pressing his lips together, his eyes dropping to Jonah’s limp body in the hallway. “I don’t think he’s unsafe,” he says. “It was just...fuckin’ hair growth formula.” He laughs. “You know that shit you can buy in a bottle. Turns out it has a side effect of causing infertility in alphas.”

Despite himself, Hannibal laughs. And it turns into a purr as Will presses close to him, baring his neck so Hannibal can nuzzle and lick over the mating bite he left. “Are you hungry, mama?” he whispers.

“Starving,” Will replies, and Hannibal doubts he’s talking about the kind of hunger that can be sated with food.

Still; “Let me cook for you, then,” he suggests. “And we can discuss what comes next.”

Will looks up at him, his lovely eyes soft, ringed with the gold of an omega fast approaching their heat. Soon, he will succumb, and trigger Hannibal’s rut, and they will be useless except to satisfy each other for however long it lasts. Forever, if Hannibal has his way.

“Your hospital gig isn’t going to be pleased about this,” Will says, laughing.

Hannibal smiles. “I’m sure they’ll understand,” he says, and kisses Will’s temple. “It’s not every day one finds their perfect mate, after all.”

“No,” Will says, soft and contemplative, as Hannibal lets him go and he helps hoist Jonah’s body up between them. There is no affection in how he looks at the other alpha, and Hannibal purrs as he finds that, as always, his mother’s eyes linger only on him. “I suppose it isn’t.”


End file.
